from twenty years ago;
not the text
as much as the tone.
I still don't know
why your rage
overflowed
onto me like hot lava.
We were just friends.
You'd said it over
and over
and over again.
Then,
in one random conversation,
we were nothing.
What had I done?
I still don't know.
I have suspicions,
but what's done is done.
Time spun
us out
in different directions,
like two tops
once together,
now apart.
But the years
brought you back
around
like clockwork,
and I opened the door,
hoping to get answers.
I never got them,
but we became friends.
Again.
It was tentative.
Growing up
had made us both
sensitive
to words
and sentence currents,
the undertones
and underbellies
of emotions.
Words became
syllables
instead of meaningful
conversation,
and what was
never became
the love
we were both
looking for.
Promises got lost
in the shuffle of life
and one wounded heart
urged a wandering eye,
while the other wounded heart
let it all die.
I'd rather be alone
than afraid of loneliness.
I'd rather not know
than feel like I'm less
than who you expected.
You moved on.
Again.
I haven't.
I'm still the same,
still without answers.
So many words
have passed
between our lips.
So many questions
still exist.
What could've been
never was,
but I don't think
it would've been
enough.
Our memories
still make me smile,
especially the quote wars
and how we laughed
until we cried,
but you went your way
and I have gone mine,
and you're the only one
who knows why.
Maybe someday
I'll know too.
No comments:
Post a Comment