The Last Hand

I fucked around and stayed long enough for you to leave an imprint in my soul.
Nothing in this life is free—there’s always a price; I just didn’t expect the cost of the toll.
Sitting at a table covered with green felt, eyeing the cards in my hand—do I raise or do I fold?
Staring at two hearts and praying the next card’s bold;
The river could save me—or just leave me out in the cold.

I wait a beat, ensuring I maintain the stoicism that I’ve painted on my face,
Considering my options: do I play it safe, or do I go all in—succumb to fate?
Even silently to myself, I must admit the odds are slim and my chances aren’t great.
If I were being honest, this would be a hard bluff, even if I was holding a full straight.

I look straight ahead, using all of my strength to keep you from seeing my shaking hands.
You watch me closely as my lungs slowly deflate—pretending not to witness them expand.
With a gulp of air and a barely audible sigh, I put the cards on the table and I started to stand:
“I fold.” An attempt to remain calm—a misguiding narrative that I hoped would land.

Eventually, you have to learn that everything doesn’t need to end in fire or giant flames.
Eventually, it no longer matters what, in the end, was a justified place to put the blame.
Some endings don’t explode—they just dissolve and leave you tame,
Like whispering goodbye to something you can’t quite name.
I didn’t storm out screaming, didn’t curse or stake a claim—
Just left the key and closed the door; no need to play the game.