The Song I Didn’t Sing

That night, the room was loud with borrowed tunes,
voices cracking over someone else’s words.
You held the mic, half-smiling, off-key, brave—
while I refused, too sure there’d be more time.

A month later, silence. No last chorus,
no drunken vow belted into static.
Just the echo of a laugh I didn’t join,
a door I didn’t know was closing then.

Maybe I should’ve grabbed the mic,
should’ve sung something sad and true—
something that would’ve made you turn,
something to say I see the end coming too.

Or maybe I should’ve stayed home,
let the party spin on without me,
so now I wouldn’t have to untangle
which part was the beginning of the end,
and which part was just a Tuesday.