What she wrote is still on that crumpled piece of paper lying next to the waste
paper basket by her bed. What was written waits for the one it was meant for
unseen and unread. I wonder what she wanted to say as I look on at the signs
of her misery, the tissue cliches that surround those that find themselves at the
other end of their tethers, staring into the abyss. Do they ever stop the lining
with their collective ballpoints and wonder if it would just somehow be easier
if they were simply dead.
Where she sat that last night by the radio - in front of her laptop, behind the
locked door as I sat with my back to it on what could only have been over
looked as a somewhat cleaner floor. I would whisper although I knew she could
still her me that I had said all of it and that there was still something more
that we could be something like love yet a few shades from our lives like
that was actually something we should live for. I leaned my head back as
I wanted her to come over, open the door and take me in her arms and
tell me she still loved me and would no longer ignore the signs she was giving
that we had a chance to go on living
But all I could her was the sounds of her tears in the sobs that still haunt
me after all these years and that I let a composite of wood and cardboard
separate my desire to reach across the space, take her face in my own hands
to reassure her that her fears were misplaced. I wanted to be able to say
that there was some meaning to all the things we were feeling, that there
was still some things worth fighting for.
My words felt like naked skin on the gravel or broken shells crackling as
I wished that my tongue would speak to her needs and that the language
that flooded into my lungs would not betray my own doubts to her lips
that I wish i could still feel the impression of on my own instead of just this
lack of presence that rests like the dead in my memory. I closed my eyes
once again and long to see what was written on that discarded letter that
she wrote for me.
paper basket by her bed. What was written waits for the one it was meant for
unseen and unread. I wonder what she wanted to say as I look on at the signs
of her misery, the tissue cliches that surround those that find themselves at the
other end of their tethers, staring into the abyss. Do they ever stop the lining
with their collective ballpoints and wonder if it would just somehow be easier
if they were simply dead.
Where she sat that last night by the radio - in front of her laptop, behind the
locked door as I sat with my back to it on what could only have been over
looked as a somewhat cleaner floor. I would whisper although I knew she could
still her me that I had said all of it and that there was still something more
that we could be something like love yet a few shades from our lives like
that was actually something we should live for. I leaned my head back as
I wanted her to come over, open the door and take me in her arms and
tell me she still loved me and would no longer ignore the signs she was giving
that we had a chance to go on living
But all I could her was the sounds of her tears in the sobs that still haunt
me after all these years and that I let a composite of wood and cardboard
separate my desire to reach across the space, take her face in my own hands
to reassure her that her fears were misplaced. I wanted to be able to say
that there was some meaning to all the things we were feeling, that there
was still some things worth fighting for.
My words felt like naked skin on the gravel or broken shells crackling as
I wished that my tongue would speak to her needs and that the language
that flooded into my lungs would not betray my own doubts to her lips
that I wish i could still feel the impression of on my own instead of just this
lack of presence that rests like the dead in my memory. I closed my eyes
once again and long to see what was written on that discarded letter that
she wrote for me.
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