Years later, or maybe even centuries or however long it will take, I’d look back and apologize and beg (even if you won’t strain your ears to hear anymore).
But right now, I won’t (can’t) do anything because the way you still cross your ‘z’s and curl your ‘f’s makes my chest tighten and constrict and I’m scared, too
- that small glass jar buried within my black heart, so small and fragile and so indispensable, hurts every time I breathe, and starts playing (like a broken record) the memories of winding fingers and shared promises (promises that were never kept) and tumbling laughs (laughing tumbles) over messy bedsheets smelling of your soft hair and your kisses and you -
The cruel fact remains, that even if I were to keep these (precious) rosemaries in the deepest and most alive part of my very existence, they’re hazy and dusty, like images processed from unfocused lens; so go, run away while you can, before I hurt you even more than I have, even more than I can.
(and maybe, maybe, once you’re safe from my razor-coated touch and shattered glass for skin and broken eyes, you’ll hear my distant cries of sorry i’m sorry forgive me i’m sorry i love you i loved you i’m sorry)