Frequency of Alienation (a lament for the faithless )

I called—
but nothing answered.

I called your heart,
but it had already left.
No note,
no trace.
Just a hollow echo
like breath leaving glass.

I called your humanity,
but it didn’t live there anymore.
Vacant.
Not even the ghost
of a pulse.

I called,
but nothing answered.

I called your friendship,
but you were absence
in disguise.
Like wind faking presence,
like silence wearing shoes
just to make a sound.

I called your sincerity,
but you came
stitched in straw,
a scarecrow of borrowed gestures,
alive only
in the waving of your scarf
in the wind.

I called your god,
but she was long gone.
Or maybe gagged,
by your convenience.
By your comfort.
By your conquest.

I called your goodness,
and found only
a scratch.
A shimmer.
A surface.
A screen.
And behind it,
nothing.

You missed every appointment
with God,
in me,
in them,
in every face
you deemed beneath
your mirror.

You sold your soul
for a side-eye victory,
a round of claps
from hands
that never held you.

You mocked me
for speaking
the wrong language,
a dialect of devotion,
a grammar of grief.

You mocked me
for tuning in
to sorrow,
to truth,
to frequencies
you never let yourself hear.

And then,
you erased me.

You—
expatriated
my entire existence
because I was written
in a tongue
you never
even tried
to kiss.

I called,
but nothing answered.

And now,
you wonder
why silence burns.
Why I no longer speak
your name.

You wonder
why your mirror cracks
when you look
too long.

It’s not the glass.
It’s the desilveration.