'what is wrong with you?'
you ask,
your words
cutting into my heart
like knives.
'how is it that you're
constantly depressed
unless you are talking
about
him?'
I sit,
silent for much longer
than anticipated.
the words I want to say
are on the tip
of my tongue,
ready to be spoken,
finally.
but I don't
release them.
I don't say
what I want to say,
which is something
along the lines of
'because he is
the only thing that
makes me
happy.
everyone and everything else
floats so easily over my head
like sea foam atop
the caps of oncoming waves;
but him,
he makes me
feel things again.
like a rip tide,
unexpectedly taking
my hand and
bringing me away from
the shoreline of
inconsiderate people
that 'just want what's
best for me.'
because
when I talk about
other people,
my face is cold
like ice,
my lips tightly stitched
into their natural,
tame curvature.
but when I talk about him,
I can't help but smile
through these tormented
teeth that have tasted
such horrid words.
because
when I see the faces
of average
day-to-day people,
I don't think anything
of them.
but when I see his face,
my heart skips
ten beats,
stopping and sputtering
like a faulty
car engine.
because
when I hear his laugh,
it dries my tears
and waters my
abandoned garden
of a soul.
because
when I look
into his eyes,
I can feel him
holding me.
and for a brief moment,
the world stops turning.
and everything is
quiet.
I can
feel
him.
I can
feel him,
and he
feels
real.'
these are the words
that sit at the tip
of my tongue.
the words that I
want to say.
the words that I
don't say.
because you
wouldn't understand
anyway.
and I don't
want to waste
my breath
on someone
who doesn't make me
feel
anything
at all.
