The Thief

You slipped through shadows, a whisper wearing shoes, and took what wasn’t yours— as if absence were a gift to me. My trust was the first thing you touched, soft as an apple in your palm. You bit it without asking, leaving teeth marks where my faith used to be. Now the night feels heavier, every creak a confession. You may have taken a thing I owned, but you also left something— a lock on my heart, a sharper set of eyes, and the memory of your hands. One day, the weight of your pockets will match the weight of your conscience— and I hope it’s too heavy to carry. Do you want me to make a shorter, sharper version that hits more like a punch than a lament?