i left a voicemail

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i left a voicemail
that i hope you don't listen to:
i left it at three am, voice trembling, words slurring, all from lack of sleep.
i even wrote it all out beforehand and everything,
in an attempt to make the words come out smoother
[but the letters just turned into unintelligible scribbles
and my eyes blurred until the words meant nothing at all].

i left a voicemail
that i hope you'll just ignore:
i bared my heart and soul into the words i spoke
[though i'm sure the shakiness between each of my breaths
clued you in to how hard the words were to get out].
i wish it would all just come naturally
[and by all i mean us- and by us i mean you].
couldn't we just go back to throwing lawn chairs in the pool
and kissing in the pouring rain
[wild eyes illuminated by neon signs from cheap bars on sketchy roads]?

i left a voicemail
that you might as well just throw away:
it's been seven days since i talked to you
[and six since i called your cell]
and the further we get from the last time we talked
the more i regret even calling you at all;
eating takeout in abandoned parking lots all alone
gave me more time to think than all the days i spent with you
and now i'm beginning to realize you only filled all of our silences to keep me from thinking at all
[my silence kept you in control
and even when i thought 'maybe i wasn't ok with this'
you shushed my words and kissed lips closed].

i left a voicemail
and i hope when you listen to it
you weep for hours and realize
what you had [and have now lost].

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