I can taste the blood on my lips
not from anything bleeding
but from the silence. From the
heartache of meeting concealmeant.
The hurt of being cut off from someone
I held in my heart. Someone I wanted
to protect. Someone who now wants
protection from me. How I hurt.
How I hurt knowing I murdered
a relationship like crows feasting
on something so dead. How I hurt
guessing how her silence to me
is comforting to her. For is it
the funeral that happens in an
event or the analogy of a living
body being so dead?
Because what hurts so deep
is this stabbing and mutilation
where I can not know them
in their living even though
they are not dead.
This premeditation of
the guessing. As I do care
about her enough to guess.
To guess how she is and
to guess what she wants.
How I hurt in the absence of affection.
A procession of tears wash me
away from how you are no longer
quite there to cry with me.
I am hurt in your silence as I guess what it speaks.
Nevermore, nevermore.