i haven’t said a word in fifty-three years
no, i told not a soul what i felt
i crumbled dreams like paper notes and
when i spoke i felt my own heart melt.

while you so declared your own ravaging fancies,
shouted like a song
a voice of purity, clear as glass
somehow, you were always wrong.

no, i am not bold, externally;
though my thoughts roared so loudly in my head
and when i put my words on paper
i could say what i wanted to be said.
my thoughts were so much louder than my words that
my head was almost deafened by their sound

perhaps i’d rather dwell in my imagined tales
than the sweet syllables i had almost found.
i dreamed, like you, to speak so clearly,
so greatly, and with such confidence;
but i mumbled, and so sillily
slurred vowels into consonants.
i dwelled in mere introversion so much that
when i opened my mouth to speak
i was held in great aversion, complete and utter disconcertion
and i could not tell you why.

indeed, i may be full of anxieties
but truly it did not matter to me, because
alone is not lonely
alone is not lonely
and i am not alone.

I know I am not in love with you.
But I also know
That you are everything
I have ever looked for
In another person,
And everything I hope to find
Again some day.
Just not you.
It really is a strange thing.