We’re not on speaking terms.
I mean, I don’t think we are.
I mean, if we had to speak we could.
I mean, I have plenty to say to you,
walking down the hallway,
Or basking in a break,
a pause in your hectic life
and mine.
I would like to be on speaking terms.
These words don’t go away, you know.
They echo.
They bounce and bruise inside my skull, and all I want is to
speak.
With you.
About why we never cross paths when we run.
About how you never look me in the eye when we walk.
About how I always find something else to do when we stand
still.
And if you have no answers,
that’s okay.
I’d still like to be on speaking terms, so that
When I’m tired and sore and the required circumstances are met,
I can pretend to be drunk on life and
speak about you.
Your hair.
Your voice.
Your heart.
Your soul.
And you can tell me when I’m wrong because most of it is
guesswork.
I don’t actually know you.
I just know what I’ve seen from my half of the universe,
and what I’ve seen is good.
Greener grass, I suppose.
I’m not a part of your life.
And the way it’s spinning,
I never will be.
You see, we’re not—
So yeah, we’re not on speaking terms.
YOU ARE READING
the angst album
Non-FictionA collection of the little things I write, some poems, some those scrolling paragraphs I can't ever seem to escape. Here is my heart, and since you are a stranger you cannot hurt me with it. Vote if you like, don't vote if you don't, hell you could...
