I’m so damn angry, at the way things have turned out, at the poison that just came out of my mouth. At the words that just flew could I tell you they had a mind of their own?  I can’t because you’re positive I’m made of stone.

That everything is calculated and redacted and ruminated before its shown. If so I have misrepresented myself, let myself drown in that familiar doubt of who will want me who will love me who will leave me.

And I guess you couldn’t know better if I told you that I kept all of your love letters and all of the things you thought I threw away. They still sit at the bottom of my closet collecting the most painful kind of dust because they were the things of us.

They only come out when I’m trying to remember, and you know that time is the end of November when I first held your hand and we decided that we would be this thing we call together. I wish I had done better. 

I saw your picture yesterday beside the bus stop.  It was hanging in the air beside my ordinary thoughts that trickled down like the raindrops that used to fall along the side of our old house, the place that we used to call home.

And things became so cold so quickly, stumbled slowly washing neatly away with the rain. I wanted to come over yesterday and tell you I was just so sorry so so sorry I could die.

But you were standing by the door and I saw your hands, your feet, the floor and I just whispered please don’t pass me by, I promise that was my last big little lie.

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Survive

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

17 Comment on “The Things Of Us

  1. Pingback: You Always touch my soul when you write… | REWOLFNUSMOON

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