As Quiet As I Could

Today, I fear, I must begin the process of grieving the loss of what, I'm accepting only through grit teeth and resisted denial, never was. What a small and forgiveable thing, not to call, not to say "good night".  A ridiculous thing to see meaning it at all. But in context, I can't currently understand how it doesn't say everything. Either you don't want me, or you don't want this, but no part of me accepts or believe that this wasn't a deliberate withdrawal. And that , sweet creature, at this stage, after what little we shared and given it's goodness, signs to me that I won't be allowed to love you, and you certainly aren't prepared to love me. You did warn me you'd push me away, I'll credit it you that. But in return I promised not to remain when or if I at last saw the warning signs of danger, and to have shifted in only four days from the desire to spend a romantic weekend together, from claims of love, to a refusal to so

So tonight I've not made the mistake of either consuming clonazepam nor immersing myself in a suite of soulful music that, in short order, I shall likely forever associate with you. And also, tonight, I've less a troubled heart than a pensive mind—though I confess to twinges of the former, nonetheless. But as it's these precisely that I mean to write my about, and perhaps my way through, I suppose it's apropos. I was so relieved to discover that you'd written me, last night, and twice no less.  I spared a moment of accusatory frustration with whichever cellular tower or device failures denied me those messages, and the subsequent phone call that might have followed. And I don't care at all to imagine you inspecting your phone with the same embarrassing, needy frequency with which I surveil my own, waiting for my reply, finding none, unable to spare yourself speculation on what it might mean. I did the same, despite every effort not to, despite writing here to

Muse aggress their beauty into my ears; the music I collected to create an emotion for—maybe of—you creates a space for words to enter from, to flow through. I confess I have done this once more, under similar circumstances; a someone I can't escape, or break, this attachment  to isn't in reach, but this mind won't let go, won't quiet. So into the internet I escape, with fingers and keys instead of voice and gesticulation, to express, unload, divest myself  of the volume. So much volume. I wish, I wish so badly, I was the man who was only worried; whose neurotic phone-checking and relentless considerations about contact owed only to some selfless benevolence. And make no mistake; I am  worried for you; not because you might not be "ok" in that callous, off-handed euphemism of that the word. In this sense of course you must be "ok"; breathing, safe from danger, fed and warm. But I wish such for everything that breathes and moves, whether escaped