Patterns of Silence

I have built myself on truth,

every word a lantern held high—

no shadows, no secrets,

no games behind closed doors.

I tell you what I feel,

I tell you where I stand.

I try to weave clarity

so no thread is ever tangled.

And yet—

each time, the same unraveling.

The silence that creeps in,

slow at first,

then heavy, suffocating.

Messages unanswered,

affections dimming,

eyes that once caught fire

now flicker toward others.

It is not betrayal,

not in the language of Polyamory.

But tell me—

what is dismissal,

if not another form of leaving?

What is rejection,

if not another kind of breaking?

What is being pushed aside

but a wound that will not scar,

reopened with every pattern repeated?

I stay consistent.

I stay open.

I give without ration,

believing that love multiplies,

that affection does not subtract.

I do not shrink one lover

to feed another.

I do not quiet my voice

because a new song is playing.

I remain—

present, passionate,

even flawed,

but never false.

And still,

the rhythm collapses again.

Their interest wanes,

their communication frays,

and I am left clutching

the honesty I thought

was enough to anchor us.

It always hurts—

this endless symmetry of endings.

Each new pattern

a mirror of the last,

each rejection

a familiar echo.

Yet I do not stop.

I cannot stop.

I will not silence myself

to soften the blow of their fading.

For though their constancy falters,

mine remains—

a heartbeat, steady,

even in the hollow ache.

I am polyamorous,

but more than that—

I am faithful to my own truth.

And if truth leaves me aching,

so be it.

Better the sting of honesty

than the poison of pretending.