I loved. I did but never said. Words were petty, I said. She never knew.
This is obvious, but not technically contact. This is the plea.

This is for you. Sold out for a good reputation, like all the others, I am condemned to guiltful struggle. There is no magic here, so no redemption.

Can you taste the skism? Can you sense the hurt? My heart is bleeding into the sink, onto the metal, onto my fault.

I was waiting to tell you. To tell you I love you, with my entire existential. It was for you. For your laugh, for your affection, for your smile. If a day went by wherein I didn't make you laugh, it was a bad day, a bad, bad day. You are my success, the investment in hope.

I was waiting to tell you on our one year anniversery. I do believe in love. I've seen it now. I've touched it with the tips of my fingernails and sailed across it until the little hairs stood up for more.

This isn't a guilt trip. At least, not for you. Let's keep the poem short and our gaze long. But, too late. I loved you. I never told you. You told me.

Words can be broken. So can hearts.

[enter insomnia]