It sings a sad tune, I tell you. One that I keep shoving down my throat to keep the bitterness repressed. I'm afraid to let it all out, so I do in small doses, and indulge in a little role-play type fantasy.
I meet you.
I catch your eye.
You smile at me.
You wave me over.
I saunter over and introduce myself.
You tell me your name, which I have known secretly for a long time, but I pretend I know nothing about this person in front of me.
And the rest is supposed to be history.
Except history has a factual presence, and this is not a collection of facts.
There's a longing I feel that I haven't felt in years, and it's truer to me than the words I use every day. I've talked about you with certain stranger-type friends, more by impulse than consideration. Every time I do, I feel a bit better, but then again, I have only uttered half truths, and being the only person who knows the nonfiction is sometimes too much of a burden to bear.
What I do not say, I keep in my back pocket, until I take it out, cupped in my hands, and press my ear against it - to listen ...
Out of the radio silence is a small, insignificant voice - fragile, gossamer - uttering in full, complete thoughts to make up one thought:
If I keep this up, there will be nothing left.
I will have tired myself out.
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