A Few More Nights

I walk through rooms that do not know my name,
where silence echoes louder than my breath.
Each step, a ghost’s; half-here, half-lost in shame,
unseen beneath the weight of nearing death.

I’ve smiled in ways that mimic those who heal,
while bleeding out behind my quiet eyes.
No scream escapes; they’d only call it “real”
if blood could form its truth across the skies.

The mirror knows, though even it looks past,
afraid to face the ending in my gaze.
I whisper time: how many nights still last?
Not many. Just enough to leave no trace.

I folded pain into the shape of light,
performed the script, recited every line,
they asked me why, but I couldn’t say it right,
why my joy would flicker, then decline.

They see me, dressed in borrowed joy, well-pressed,
the kind of grief too careful to offend.
But loneliness becomes a second guest,
and every smile I fake, a means to end.

I’ve written notes I may not let them read,
and hidden tears in towels, pillows, sleeves.
Each heartbeat now a thread I do not need—
what tethers breaks when no one truly grieves.

The clock becomes a drumbeat in my chest,
each hour a nail that hammers down the day.
I lay where laughter used to grant me rest,
and wonder who will mourn or walk away.

There’s something in the hush before the dawn—
a breath I take that trembles not to be.
I think I’m close now. Soon, I will be gone.
And maybe then . . . someone will notice me.

Would anyone remember what I gave?
Or will they learn it only at my grave?