The Final Word

He took my words, left me voiceless,
that is, not intentionally:
because the only things I have
to say, are the things I have
to say to him.

Desire that distracts me, downplayed in
notes on love, disguised in polite
I showed him what he was to me –
what I needed him to be, but always,
I masked it – wrapped it up in delicate prose.
Time and again I let him know
the lengths of my love, yet it was
forever implied; forever unspoken:
baring my heart at a safe distance.
Questions, that burned; ate me up –
veiled and protected by a suit of
ambiguity –
I screamed out to the world
instead of to him; demanded answers
that of course, would never come, but
I was not brave enough to hear,

It was the same for him too.

When he emerges again,
I’ll be gone.
He won’t even notice.

So, for today I am silent: nothing more
to say.
Words are now inconsequential,
simply meaningless.
Turns out, they always were.
And so it goes –
I’ll never again write, because
I’ll never again write


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