We are done with words

There’s a letter for you that sits in my cupboard 

I wrote it the same night you said, “I guess there is nothing left to say.” That night, 

I rummaged through our memories to find all the things 

I could have said because I knew words could save us if nothing else. 

I remember, 

I wrote too much but it never felt enough. Words after words. Sentences after sentences. 

I wanted to tell you about the day you looked at my palms and said that they reminded you of someone. I asked you, “Who?” and you just smiled. 

I wanted to ask you what it meant when you said that you didn’t know what a safe place felt like. You said you did not know a place that isn’t dangerous. I was right there in front of you but you never noticed how determined I was to keep you safe. 
I wanted to ask you if you ever noticed how I always parted my hair to the right.

I wanted to ask you if you ever wanted to know what love meant to me. 
I wanted to ask you if ever felt “this is it.” Because, I did. So many times that it almost felt ridiculous. 

That night, with the letter, was a difficult pursuit. I was trying to deposit my emotions into the paper. So, I didn’t have to carry them once you were gone. 

IF you were gone. 

And, you were gone. And, I was left with paper cuts and half-cooked metaphors.

I’m still here with the letter and the loneliness these words feel has ruffled me for too long.

Long enough to make me wonder if you ever wanted to listen to what I had to say in the first place. 

The letter has always been incomplete because I have always had so much to tell you. 

But, today, as I stare at my palms something feels wrong. I think of you and it doesn’t feel like it. Today, for the first time, I feel we are done with words.

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