We sat beneath the porch light’s hum,
Your eyes like searchlights, mine like dusk.
The silence clung too long between
So I said, “It’s done. He won’t come back.”

Your fingers twitched around your glass.
Voice low, like peeling paint:
“What did you do?”

I smiled like the moon thin and cold.
“I gave him what he gave the world.
Fear. Silence. Then... nothing.”

You didn’t blink. Just leaned in closer.
Eyes wide now, mouth a whisper:
“What did you do?”

The night groaned as if it knew.
I set my hands on the table, slow
Let you see the stain beneath my nails.
“Justice,” I said, “with no one watching.”

Your glass slipped from your hand.
Shattered. Like the last of your denial.

One more time, not a question now,
But a breathless prayer:
“What did you do?”

And I just sat there,
letting the silence fill in
what I never needed to say.