Somewhere between the ruthless January and the grey Springs,
I realized that my feet had begun to sink
way too under the ocean bed
and that I could no longer swim;
and to call it suffocating would be an understatement.
I never could justify to myself
the need I held of listening to your voice.
Sometimes, I would listen
to the dial tone for hours
and fall asleep to it;
and to call it crippling would be an understatement.
I spent Saturday night without you,
flipping through old photographs and listening to blues.
I can tell from what it felt like inside,
that I have never been more neglected.
And to call myself abandoned would be an understatement.
I would watch the short shadows elongate
and the rising sun, set
and yet,
I thought that if I waited a little more,
I could figure out why I wasn’t just scarred but,
scarred to death.
And to call myself numb would be an understatement.
And with each time you hung up on me,
each time you made me cry,
each time you left me alone,
left me to here to die,
I put on a broken smile.
And to call it love would be an understatement.
