I folded my shirt like folding days

I folded my shirt like folding days,

a collar limp beneath fluorescent haze.

Quitting isn’t light; it’s heavier than air,

a quiet bruise you don’t prepare.

The mugs I left, stained and cold,

held more than coffee — they held old

shifts of sweat and broken cheers,

a steady drip of fading years.

I learned that stopping steals the noise,

but leaves behind a hollowed voice.

No sudden peace, just something stalled,

a silent room where echoes called.