A decent apology would be a start, but even that I can't do, maybe because I'm a coward and don't know how to own up to my own mistakes, or maybe because I'm that same coward who's afraid of your answer.
You're not talking to me or even looking at me, but an urge to cry hits me just imagining you saying, face to face, that you don't want to know about me anymore.
This is being very difficult, this distance so close, this proximity so far. I know, that sentence doesn't make any sense, but fuck all that, I already screwed it up anyway, a few random, meaningless words won't make the slightest difference in the chaos I've created.
But they do. Everything always makes a difference no matter how small it is. The rude words I threw at you without even realizing it made all the difference to you.
I created a bomb in your heart, fed it, and the wick burned over time. Now all this shit I've created has exploded on top of me and it's my obligation, my duty, to clean up this mess. I don't even know where to start. A decent apology would be a start...
YOU ARE READING
Some Prose & Poetry
PoetryP R O S E /prōz/ noun 1. written or spoken language in its ordinary form, without metrical structure. P O E T R Y /ˈpōətrē/ noun 1. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive s...
