Friday, December 7

One too many halves

How do you tell someone that it hurts to hear their voice. To see their name on the missed calls list. To hear their name mentioned in conversation, even if in reference to someone else. An unexplainable, irrational hurt, that in no place or time or land makes sense, but is palpable and very in the everyday and ordinary.

Like a tea bag. Or a carwash. Or song without a title or even notes or words; maybe that's what's called silence.

And no, I won't react to that. Because when I do, you will know that it is you that I am talking about. And the only thing worse than the hurting, is when you know, and don't do anything about it.

Don't whisper, or call back, or do any of the things that I can imagine you doing, but you never actually do.

It's that kind. The kind that is half real half imaginary half on a pedestal and hidden and I know that's one too many halves.

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