I could tell you about how I write poems about you — like clockwork.

How every other one I would bitterly title as the last words I would give to you.

How easily I broke my own promises, and how satisfying it was to make you out as something sweeter than you are.

You wouldn’t want to hear about how caught I was in your eyes, in your laugh; in your smile and the words I always took the wrong way.

How delusional I was, how hopeful, how sad, but maybe that would explain the things I can’t find the voice to say.

I think sometimes we take silence for what it isn’t, because we get confused between what we need to be told and what we want to hear.