here lies what once was—
splintered glass of near truths resting
beneath the power-blue hush
of we don’t need to talk about it.
we used to orbit
like hesitant planets, nudging
gravity just shy of consequence—
but you steered sharp
into the sun, unblinking.
there’s a violence to distance
when it used to mean safety.
now: silence isn’t sacred,
it’s a strategy.
i’ve learned the sound
of someone unmaking me
in curated company
while pretending
they never tripped on my name
like a whispered mistake.
your cruelty wears thin now—
subtle, tight-stitched.
you roll your eyes like shutters
sealing off history,
as if the story
wasn’t folded
inside old cards
tucked in our drawers.
meanwhile, I keep
the fragile bloom
of what I meant intact—
not in a vase, but
under my ribs,
where not even frost
dares root again.
what I gave
was not a performance.
what I lost
was not a phase.
what remains
is the full ache of restraint—
elegant still
even in rupture.
Valerie Frost lives in Central Kentucky with her three joyful kiddos. Her poems have appeared in Eastern Iowa Review, ONE ART, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere.