Prose

XVII

And it seems that it goes

May to December to January to March to April

With you anyway. And when you talk it feels like you care. It feels like every question mark is your version of a plan, a plan to make it up to me.

It feels like love for no reason at all, absolutely none.

How many siblings do I have?

What's my favorite color?

And it feels like you're digging deeper into the confusing tangle of bloodied veins and bleached bones that is me.

But you're not. I bet you just wanted to say something, trying to keep yourself entertained with the girl that trips and stumbles over thick, black words that scream your name when it gets dark out.

But it feels like love. It feels like you love me just like I love you when you ask me how my life is going.

Truth is, it sucks without you. It hurts each day I don't get to touch you. But I say it's fine and I ask about yours. You don't seem too fine. You don't smile a lot. No one's going to notice it but me. I'm sorry if I don't pry when I know I should. I'm sorry that the words get stuck in my throat and I can't breathe and I turn away and forget I saw you.

I'm sorry that you sound like you love me and I can't believe it. I won't believe it. I'll push it out and forget it and remember her. You miss her more than you ever missed me I bet.

I'm sorry I'm not special.

And I'm sorry you make me feel this way.

I'm sorry it's your fault.

April 13, 2014 7:54pm