It’s not that I’m giving up.
But when you change the goalposts
And have nothing left to say anymore,
The thought that I have most
I’ve predicted that this day would come,
Like I’m a self-inflicting almanac
That foresaw one day, you’d be done.
I guess I kind of hoped
This meant more than silent retreat,
But it’s okay. I accept it wasn’t. That I’m not.
I won’t force what isn’t there to defeat.
I have grown cold with acceptance that
There’s no longer any interest here for you.
So this is where I give in and stop reaching out,
For that’s all I’ve left in me to do.