To feel acutely the pain of a million silences between us-
Each following one, piercing deeper than the last.
Of the thousand things left unsaid and unvoiced between us; half-written texts wiped clean of any character that may betray real emotion.
Of the hundreds of songs hummed at the moment, you came to mind, only to consciously stop when rationale set in its humbling claws.
Of all the times my lips curled upwards, at a sudden thought of you,
Only to be self- suppressed at the knowledge it would be seen and wondering still if you did the same.
Of all the times I tried to convince myself you felt nothing, so I could resign myself to what I knew fate had drawn for us.
All the times I told myself- ‘He likes her, not you. Why would he even like somber, awkward, morbid you? When he has the bubbly, beautiful, ever-present sunshine that is her? It is settled, dear heart. He loves her. Move on.’
I would be no good for you, even if you did like me anyway.
All of this, just so I could swallow the way my brain dreamt up a million possible beautiful ends. If only I could stop.
The agony of waiting for a seeming eternity, for you to write back.
And of all the fears that rose to smother the way, my heart soared at seeing your texts. Persuading myself to slow the speed at which my bones reached out to answer.
And of course, the added torment of making myself wait another 20 minutes before replying. To whoever doubted I wasn’t a masochist- consider yourself forewarned and adorably naive.
Of all the times I tried to imagine another, only to find myself whispering your name instead- my own curt subconscious surprising its so-called master.
Of the pain, again and again, as discovering more of you only meant more of you, I couldn’t ever make mine.
Fated to belong to another, and I, with no sensible option, but to let that be.
I could not be more sorrowful at knowing you, only to also know it cannot be,
It cannot be,
Why is it so hard for the heart to understand, it cannot be?