The ballad of crab and fish
You can't keep appearing then disappearing from my life because every time you do, you rip at heart. You can't say the things that you do and then withdraw and pretend there was nothing between us because your timing sucks as usual. You can't keep doing this to me because I am not 17 anymore and you are not 14. And again when I was 22 and you 18. And again when I was 27 and you 23. I just turned 34, you are turning 30 and if we keep at this, it will have burnt out and my arm first, then the rest of me with it. My arms are tired from holding this damn torch for you. Just as you do for me, or so you claim. You take it up and put it down again. And you bandy it about while you try to talk with your hands, trying to explain to myself (but probably more to yourself) that this is bigger than us. The lights cast shadows on the wall and sometimes it fools me into believing that it's playing out half-truths that resemble nothing of our reality.
I can't keep telling myself that it wouldn't have worked out anyway because it never has, it never will and there you are and I am here. So don't talk about a fucking connection. And don't tell me you think of me often. And don't try to kiss my ass to worm yourself back into the centre of me everytime I think I can finally think of you only with fondness and without regret or yearning.
That whole conversation last night did not happen. I'm content to reducing the story of us into a pile of words meant for someone else.
I can't keep telling myself that it wouldn't have worked out anyway because it never has, it never will and there you are and I am here. So don't talk about a fucking connection. And don't tell me you think of me often. And don't try to kiss my ass to worm yourself back into the centre of me everytime I think I can finally think of you only with fondness and without regret or yearning.
That whole conversation last night did not happen. I'm content to reducing the story of us into a pile of words meant for someone else.