I’d pick a rage over a frost

You didn’t want to talk to me that day

and it was obvious in the things you’d say

and the way your words crawled out of your throat

grudging, incomplete, with nothing of note

each half-sentence a generous favour to me,

why didn’t you ask me to just let you be?

or pass some other cruel decree-

a “go away,” a “fuck off”, a “set me free”.

A burst of temper would’ve also done

but you chose to count your woes- one by one.

Not much later you sent a text to say

“it’s over, I couldn’t…sorry it had to end this way.”

I wasn’t surprised, just a little broken

at the words you’d picked– like you still hadn’t spoken

I wept and threw a tall glass at the ground

relieved as it shattered– finally a meaningful sound.