Now she is gone, and I sit here alone,

With little more than anguish left to ponder;

No abject rancor searing to the bone,

Embattled wills shall try our souls no longer.

I am not saddened—no, not sad at all;

This feeling much akin to truce in war:

A muted comfort that no blood should fall.

A peace now won, but still no reckoned score.

Yet solace is a gift not to be shunned,

Mute quietude a refuge spirits seek

Where wounded souls’ dark depths remain unplumbed,

May yet be sounded, whether blank or bleak;

And so in silence I now sit and muse:

Detente in love seems more a loss we choose.