Due.

The echo of your laughter

now rings just half a beat too late,

as every joke you made at my expense

becomes your epitaph in wait.

You fed me shards of daylight,

certain they would cut

not knowing how a wounded thing

learns which wounds to shut.

Now watch how statues shatter,

not loud, not once, but slow,

as the winner, dressed in shadow,

takes back what the loser stole.