I tried to write you. After so long; so much distance.  But what could I say? How would I begin? Don’t you think it strange how this happened? I once knew you as if you lived in my own head.  But now we’re worse than strangers – occasional ‘hellos’ and inconsequential chatter.  And while you talk about your sister or that work thing, in my head I am wondering if you ever think about me.  Or if you remember that day under the clock on the platform – the one from that film I loved. It was the day I first told you I loved you…. I still love you.

At least I suspect I do.  In truth, I hardly know what I think or feel.  Thoughts race: a multitude of pictures and colours and words, all rushing this way and that, trying to make themselves known but not understood.  Thousands and thousands drown me in white noise so that all I can feel is nothing.  I chase them around until I’m dizzy and even when I do manage to grasp hold of a single thought, it pours through my fingers like water, before I can even make it out.  And yet, even though I cannot find the words that fit this gap, what I do know, is that the space is the shape of you.

‘Life’s too short,’ my friends say.  ‘Tell him.’

I disagree.  It’s not a gamble I’ll take,

Because life is an incredibly long time if I had to live even a minute knowing for sure that you don’t love me back.



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