I think my words are best written. Sometimes I hesitate-- the syllables trapped in my throat-- although they are perfectly articulate in my mind. I fear my words will shatter some silent understanding. Most of all, I fear they will repel you. So, I am silent-observing the daily motion, the practiced habits. I wait. In still moments, as the words press against my tongue and sometimes emerge as sloppy scribbles. 

Let me begin by telling you -- you were like a fever. You burn me and burn me until I’m cold, somehow. You get under my skin and you’re an itch on that place in my back that i can never reach and i can never reach you. Nothing is enough, and somehow it’s too much, somehow it overflows and spills onto everything around me and stains it all like red wine and i can’t get you out of the fabric no matter how hard i scrub. 

We are both fragile-hearted individuals who've seen too much pain to be mentioned; “I am not afraid of change” but cling to what dialectic truths I imagine like floating driftwood in a shipwreck. I cannot erase from my mind the memory of the ways my hands froze last year, and when you and I came in from the cold of that silence and I felt your grip so tight around my wrist that I didn't know if the dizziness was the cleave of thought or the lack of oxygen -- I was terrified enough to feel my legs tremble and my root chakra vibrate. 

But I am tiring, and I feel my prowess deteriorate; we are both  weak minded individuals, unsure of what to do and what to say, always choosing what we desire over the ways in which we should behave and we are too much alike, and too physical to be connected -- I want your love but your heart is far too large to be accepted.

 I still think the world of you. You were the first one to see my wounds after he left. You were the one to place your hands where it hurt and it hurt less that way. I let you see the ugly parts of me, the dead flowers still tangled in my veins. You let me tell you about the color of his eyes and about the love we had and you promised that you could love me better. You were the first hand I held in so long and you were the first to give me something to believe in again. How could I not have loved you for that? Love is all I know, love is all you've taught me.

 I guess in the end, people start to think about the beginning. So here I am telling you that I'd always been in love with your lips, not with the way that they kiss but in the careful, pursed way they wrap my days with empty phrase. I'd always been in love with each of our fingertips. Long and short. Soft and coarse. There are new heights and textures in our written notes. I'd always been in love with your thoughts, even when kept from me. I can feel them deep in my cheeks, trudging through weekday silence. But now I have fallen in love with leaving you especially. We have nothing left to do. I was so caught up in loving you that I forgot to love myself.

 I am so tired of fending for you. I will no longer allow you to hurt me any further. This is me, ultimately telling you: Goodbye. We both deserve to not be with one another. 



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