Strictly Professional Interaction (by @kork75)

I’m not asking for forgiveness.
I line up words like madmen do,
or bar poets —
the kind who talk to themselves
because silence, over time, makes more noise.

We spoke in half-tones,
between halved truths and held breaths.
Each painting their own canvas:
you with fear,
me with naïveté.

I looked at you — yes —
with those statue eyes,
black, glossy, beautiful.
Cold as the bill after lunch.

You struck clean,
no appeal.
It wasn’t anger — it was strategy.
You just needed a reason to leave.

Then, as if one sentence could fix it:
“Don’t talk to me again.”
Right after:
“From today, I’m not leaving anymore.”
You stayed — not to understand —
but out of obligation.

When I said “Here I am,”
you left my hand hanging.
A real friend would’ve listened.
You chose the summary trial.

You turned me into an unwanted echo,
a shadow on a path you wanted cleared.
Your goodbye carried that polite poison
of someone who turns loyalty into accusation.
But I don’t defend myself.
Not anymore.

I saw you leave,
slamming the door.
I made mistakes, yes.
But I didn’t betray.
And if you remember, you know that.

You — architect of surgical silences —
built bridges just to cross them,
then blew them up with the timer ticking.
I — distracted traveler —
missed the “Emergency Exit” sign.

Now we’re two islands with radios off.
We exchange signals in corporate code.
No storm.
No calm.
No poetry.

Still, I saw your heart.
With its secret gardens.
But it was just a passage.
Not a harbor.

You wore kindness on command.
I searched for light.
You offered reflections.
And for a moment, I believed.

If the season of true words ever returns,
maybe we’ll understand each other.
Slowly.
Without urgency.

Until then: good morning, good evening.
Respect and distance.
I keep writing.
You — if you want — tell me your silences.
But know this: I won’t bend.
Not anymore.