No combination of words
no choice phrases, no desperate adjectives
will help,
when telling him what I mean, feel, know.
Though how could it help when
all of it, in the end, he reads as fiction anyway.

Try as I might, try as I do
I craft the altercation
as I sleep, work, eat, unwind
constantly, constantly.
It seems to always come out the same -
contrived, because it is
pathetic, because it is
and meaningless, because that, in the end, is
what
it
really
is.

The problem, I have found,
is that dialogue is what I crave.
To bounce off, thrive off, relish in -
though silence tends to come from him.
Maybe though, just maybe
He only needs,
One word, which amongst all these gets lost,
and perhaps, can never find its way again.