Long

The silence deafens me.
Your promises ring empty.
All that I thought was false have been proven true.

It's strange that when I see them loving that I should think of you.
Because though nothing stirs, no emotions, no hurt, no curiosity
There seems to be a lingering fragility as my mind runs through all that you do.

As if it would break and fade if I should but brush it with my fingertips
Melt away into foam should I but caress it with my breath
Hold it only in my mind.

Nothing is what it seems.
Nothing was supposed to turn out this way.
Habit?

But even now, my words fall upon deaf ears and unlike the others, you do not rejoice at the opportunity, but recoil as I try to coax you out to see me. Why is that? Why should I never be the wanted, the needed.
Because it is just so, they say.
Too loudy.

Even the crispest photographs yellow with time.
Habit. Sour habit, always and always.
Can I not see what I have done wrong?

Once again history receives its repetition humbly, as shall I. Time to move on?
Traditions set solidly in concrete is hard to break, had to crumble.
I shall break something.
Yet, I need to try.
Or fail, trying.

Small talk, hugging.
What good are they to me?
Should I bury myself, once again, in my books, in my worlds where everything was right, predictable ytet exciting, monotonous, uniform, limited and yet vast?
Perhaps I should.
Perhaps I belong there more than anywhere else.