He texts me. It’s impersonal. What was I expecting it to be? There’s no real connection except that of a single flame in the altogether too dark caves- or cavres- of our hearts. I almost backspace it all.
He texts me. He tells me I’m cute. Cute is a compliment that’s too easy. There is nothing in cuteness except that of a noncommittal compliment but it’s meant to make my cheeks blush. It doesn’t. Nothing does.
He texts me. It’s nothing at all. We aren’t saying a thing. There’s nothing worth saying when you’re talking in circles with a man who can’t understand that you’re more than a surface you show to the world. So I say nothing. He says nothing.
He texts me. We say goodnight. What was I expecting to feel? There is nothing in these feelings except that which reminds me of you and I hate that that’s all it is. So I sit down and think.
And I write you a message. Every line I want to tell you, everything everything everything that makes me sad that you’re gone. Everything everything everything that makes me well up in tears- in emotions I thought I was finished feeling. So I sit down and I write and I write all of everything down.