deleted drafts of poetry

change.

change.

we don't talk like we used to. fear is an understatement for the feeling in my gut when we go minutes without speaking. numbers that i can't count on my fingers. clocks ticking to fill the silence. i can feel you drifting away from me in the chair across the room, and find it strange how you can be so close yet so distant; the word distance has changed it's meaning. before it was the number of hours between us. now it is the number of minutes that go by where we aren't talking. why aren't we talking? i ask myself this but find no answer, and feel you growing bored. i recognize the look in your eye as the beginning of the end; as the the close of the curtains; like my favourite pair of hole-y jeans having to be thrown out when i was eight, remorse lingers deep in my gut. you say goodbye like it's a chore, lips dead, and i utter the words like it's a question. my voice sounds broken. your arms feel broken. my heart likewise. and i'm not sure how to fix it all.