you're hurting. and i'm sorry.
I do not step with my right foot inside a line
And my left on the other side.
No, I won’t do that half-heartedly.
The line was there for a reason,
And I wouldn’t stay there, rooted, just to stare at you
If I could take a step forward.
Once my sole grows comfortable,
I won’t stop;
I will hop, leap, run,
Just to get to you faster.
You are not too far away,
And I am not exactly patient either.
One step would turn into two, three—
And God knows how many natural numbers there are.
It may seem the easiest decision
To take a step back and feel everything in silence.
But no.
It’s not.
Especially when the “almost” is within arm’s reach,
Yet the right to grab it is still a hundred miles away.
Just—
When the noise falls into a hush,
Know that a whimper is trying to escape.
And when the one left behind
Is trying to make sense of the void,
Expect that the other is contemplating while walking away
[And ugly crying]
You weave poetry as if you were born a tailor.
Silence is a blunt pair of scissors
And a tangled red thread is a tragedy.
I won’t ask for sympathy for the wound I caused,
But know that the bluntness
Is also killing me.