Furiously

Furiously I spoke, my words soft as a whisper, my thoughts raging in my skull, my feelings swelling to burst. I told you I loved you. I still love you. The words, they were real, but we both knew they were measured, perhaps for both our sakes. I said it all, in that whisper. I said everything. And you listened, perhaps not always intently, but you listened.

And in return, you gave nothing. You said nothing. Even in your loudest voice, the one that so closely resembles a scream, you said nothing.

I sat in silence. Waiting for something, for some sign, something to know it was real. I wanted to hear anything said that rang with truth, even if it stung me deep.

The clock on the wall, the one that stopped working years ago, it slowly ticked away the time that didn't pass between us. And with the time, something else was there between us... the ache of longing, the pain of memories of a time that no longer was, could no longer be.

I spoke again, words that I couldn't retain within me, my voice no longer a whisper, but filled with emotions that might have killed to escape. Still, I didn't shout when I spoke of promises and loss, of heartbreak and fear. I didn't scream of the hurt and suffering, of the wounds that ran so deep.

And you sat in silence. Still. Afraid to show me anything. Afraid of exposing weakness, emotion. Somewhere inside, I'm sure you were afraid of hurting me. More than you'd already hurt me. Just as afraid of hurting yourself. Of admitting anything to yourself.

When I spoke again, my voice but a shadow of itself, control regained, I lied. I said that it didn't matter what you told me, if you told me anything at all. I lied to you and I said I didn't need to hear you speak. I still knew how you felt, even if you couldn't tell me. I knew everything.

In truth, I was dying to hear it. Knowing a thing does not always make it real.

In lust you begged. In passion I replied. There was still so much there, yearning and need. Wounds that couldn't be healed so quickly. And I touched you, and you cried, and still you said nothing of substance. You cried, your body shaking, and you refused to look at me. You'd refused to look at me all along, to let me see into your eyes, maybe afraid of looking back into mine.

And what you'd find there.

Love.

Unrequited.

Love.

And now, perhaps, I'd kiss you. Maybe, one last time, we'd lie together, bodies explaining everything that can go without being said aloud. Perhaps.

And now, perhaps, I'd say my last goodbyes. I'd wish you well, and I'd mean it, all of the happiness in the world. And in silence you'd watch me go. Still a tear might fall. Perhaps.

Maybe this is how these things could happen. But they don't. They didn't. Not with us, whoever we are or were.

So, I'll let escape a laugh completely free of mirth, and maybe a chuckle with a measure more melancholy. And now, perhaps, I'll go back to sleep, and dream other dreams. Maybe I'll find you there.

Or worse, you'll find me.