The Things We Do Not Say

i have learned to keep quiet
the way dusk keeps its color—
softly, as if the sun never left.
you move through your days
like a secret wearing sunlight,
and i pretend not to notice the glow.

we made a vow once—
not of love, but of honesty—
a promise to speak when hearts wandered,
to draw the line gently, like a hand
between the flame and the wick.
but silence, i see, burns cleaner.

i have known for a while now,
the way trees know when rain is coming—
by scent, not by sight.
your laughter changed its rhythm,
your words began to walk around a shadow
that only i seemed to hear breathing.

i could have asked,
but peace has a quieter appetite
than truth ever will.
so i let you keep your secret,
as if it were something sacred,
as if you needed it more than my knowing.

and i—
i will learn the art of vanishing politely:
still here in the frame,
still smiling in the story,
but written in fainter ink
each time your name is spoken.

you taught me this—
that sometimes love ends
not with goodbye,
but with two people choosing
the silence that keeps them safe.

so keep your peace.
i’ll keep mine.
and let the world believe
nothing has changed.