Waiting for the call that will never come.
I die inside every hour, every minute.
I reach across the couch to grab my phone.
Before I pick it up, I pull back my hand as if denying myself the disappointment I already know.

She never lied to me, she never hurt me.
I guess she just didn't want to hear "I love you" from me.

Can't eat, unable to cry, barely able to sleep, too depressed to drink.
She doesn't know how much I hurt, and I don't want her to know either.
I'm tired of it. I can't take another crack in my heart. It will break.
So I sink into my couch, phone on the other cushion, staring somewhere at the air between the TV screen and my face.

I just want relief in somebody's arms.