confused. by J.W. Bouwman

We never speak anymore. Every day I open that page and type long messages of fumbletongued confusion, only to slowly erase each one letter by letter and never hit send. It’s an unopened dialogue better left unsaid.

I’d like to say that I miss the knowing of you, but I never really did. Know you, I mean. You never gave me anything of you, which is something I’ve only just realised. You gathered skein upon skein of the things that make me, me, and put them away for safekeeping, always asking for more, but promising your equal offerings for a later date I should have known I’d never see. That thought makes me feel strangely lonely, even though I’ve no reason to feel melancholic over this loss of a ghost I never really had in the first place.

I knew I was right to hesitate when you said you wanted me to love you, so quickly. Only in my deepest silent recesses did I notice that you never said you wanted to love me.

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  1. writtenwren posted this