I am no poet. Truly. But something in me says to write. And on certain occasions:
It spills itself forth, whether I will it or no.
I am ending something...something of...unimaginable proportions and precious quality.
And tonight: I write...
A REASON FOR SILENCE
I am stuck, somewhere on the precipice
Waiting to fall.
Caught by an image of you.
I want to purge myself of this, every memory,
Body and soul,
Hoping that, with it's relinquishing,
this pain will lessen, and fade...
I can finally rid myself of all the hurt:
And it will be as though you never were at all...
You have taken everything from me.
Not just yourself.
And the thought; that "I love you"
makes me so ill...
...that I fear my body will not hold it in.
And yet.
I know, were you to come to me tonight:
I would be standing here: on the precipice...
Still waiting. For you.
I love you.
And the knowledge of it sticks to my tongue,
to my every part
(like too sweet candy)
And will endure.
These words fight themselves out of me,
and it is a struggle.
I sit here, waiting for the bus:
Impatient for my computer...
And it is then that I see:
Yes...This must be over.
...as I hastily try to jot the words down
on anything that I can find in my pockets,
to rid myself of them:
...The way I did once,
this same time, one year ago...
...trying to hide reluctant words of love....
Which I know now:
It would have been better never to say.
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