What Now

What now that I write

what I dare not speak,

ink braver than breath,

truth safer on the page.

What now that I read these words,

as though they belong to another lifetime,

a version of me that burned

for something I no longer name.

What now that I no longer hang

on every word,

yet still pause,

as if expecting one to return.

What now that this chapter is closed,

that the pages lie still,

but hum faintly

when the lights go out.

What do I do with this blank page?

Now that I have emptied my heart

and freed my mind of these dreams,

though something unseen

keeps pacing the edges of sleep.

What now that yesterday feels

like a lost, fervent dream,

its aftermath clinging

to the corners of the room.

What now that my strength has faded

and my joy grown jaded,

like a flame learning

it was only ever smoke.

What now that my laughter

barely reaches my eyes,

a borrowed sound

meant to keep the quiet from noticing.

What now that I am

unfeeling,

unmoved,

unshaken,

not out of peace,

but something colder.

What now that I can't take a step forward

without taking a step back.

What now that I no longer believe in us,

that I may break your heart,

yet cannot believe

it still can be broken.

What now that the dream is lost,

but leaves footprints

where it used to stand.

How do I face you tomorrow,

when the version of me you knew

remained in yesterday.

What now?