No more

The ball is on your court, the move is yours.
Be quiet or shout, be my guest.
I'll settle with what could have been;
I know you won't play my game.

And though some would dread the shame,
And go out with their face hidden,
I refuse on friendly terms,
I'm proud to have done what I did.

No response, no reply, that's all right,
No being like you seem to be,
Nothing really, no image or sound,
But nothingness is clear and loud.

I've always been this way,
I've always rather know than doubt,
And now I know through your inaction,
But even that I'll take as a reaction.

Why wait? I thought. Why cry? I think.
Why, why why? Why are you so?
But, then again, why not? It's not your fault.
Why confuse sympathy with what I felt?

Now, with the table turned,
I shan't write or call or do more,
The ball is on your court, the move is yours.
I think you don't dare play my game.