The house is quieter, but I am happier

The house is quieter now that you’re gone,
the nights stretch longer, the mornings move on.
Your shoes don’t wait by the door anymore,
no echo of you pacing the floor.

The walls feel strange, but they don’t complain…
They’ve witnessed enough of almost-pain.
We ended things before love turned mean,
before sharp words cut what we hadn’t seen.

That matters more than I knew back then,
we chose the end before the when.
Before we learned to wound to stay,
before affection wore away.

I miss you, yes, but gently so…
like fading light, a softer glow.
A cup you liked, an empty chair,
small quiet ghosts, but nothing bare.

Because I’m not bleeding when I remember you,
I’m not undone by what we couldn’t do.
The hurt arrived, then let me breathe,
It didn’t linger, it didn’t seethe.

Letting go hurt, but it hurt just right,
like closing a door before a fight.
A splinter pulled, a sudden sting,
then healing felt like a natural thing.

I don’t flinch now when keys turn slow,
I don’t brace for a familiar blow.
No rehearsed apologies fill my head,
no fear of the things we almost said.

Peace came softly, without a sound,
sat with me, and stayed around.
It didn’t shout or stake a claim;
it simply taught my heart its name.

Love doesn’t always mean endure...
Sometimes, leaving is how we’re sure.
How we save what still feels kind,
by loosening grip, by being aligned.

The house is quieter, that much is true,
but so is my heart, and it feels new.
In all this hush, I finally hear:
I’m happier now, and healing here.

(The inspiration for this poem came while digesting cases)