It happens when my anxious voiceblossoms and starts venting out poetic realization.
It happens when tales areno longer tales and Saturdays are nights of peculiar daydreaming. It gives anindication of what I think the best word for okay, and I still am wondering howI will nurse my shattered ego and restore my confidence back to its originalform. It happens that the thousand decisions Imade were not equal to the total moments I spent over a period of five hoursevery night, studying the collective effort that you did. But with you, I grewup to be more aware about the pitch of my voice, of my style, of my worth. Ifelt how important to know you more, and I was not sure if it did matter toyou. I was a serious one, you were the optimist. I talked about the leavesfalling in an autumn afternoon, but you laughed at the accurateness of mydescription.
I loved all the ways you spoke to me and your only source ofsolace was merely a bottle of superiority of your thoughts. It happens when it’s difficult toconclude that all stories end in happy endings, and it is strangely easy to saythat I still am not sure if you ever care about me. I can’t fathom thishopeless night staring at my own reflection in the mirror, thinking where Iwent wrong, but you lied and cheated. It happens when I am opening a new doorof affection that once belonged to somebody else whom I had chosen before. I amabout to establish a glint of hope that might be as congenial as puppy dogslike those I owned when I was seven. It all comes when I am about to busymyself with a lot of things, and train myself engrossing with too much pressurethat even my right hand sores every time I pen your name. It happens when I do not regret that Ihave decided not to trace again those unmet promises and glue them back.
It isjust that I am not afraid; I do not want to feel that pain anymore.