just tired. i miss you. i wish you’d say something back. (please come back)
losing track of time
while i’m stuck in traffic,
headed right for your voice,
thinking of all the things we
haven’t said at all—
and i ache to forgive,
to move forward, to live and let go,
but it seems like my mind finds every
opportunity it can to remind me
that you haven’t said a word
and i probably shouldn’t say any more.
and i’m sorry, i’m sorry,
i’m really so f-f-f—sorry. i’m sorry.
i wish i knew what else to say,
wish i knew if i should say anything at all,
wish i knew how to ask you if you
even want to change your ways,
wish i knew how to tell you that
i want to help it hurt you less, but that i
can’t, not if you don’t say anything back when
i ask.
and i’m sorry. i miss you.
i love you. i want to say that i’m not mad at
you—never, never, never—and i wasn’t,
i wasn’t mad at you, but the more
that i think about it, the more
things don’t add up and the more
things don’t make sense and the more
i wish you were here and the more
i wish you’d say something back, because
i’ve thought myself around infinite,
pulling the strings of stars until
they came crashing down on me, burning
hot trails against the icy sky that is my skin.
i wish you’d say yes or no—tell me if
i was right to think it’d be better if i said
nothing more to you. and i know it’s probably
selfish to wish for you to say something—
anything, even, as much as it hurts—
but i find i don’t really care
as much as i thought i would.
(please come back)
(and please don’t go)
((again))
(please come back,)
(please?)
((i’m sorry.))