unwritten.

what i wanted to say isn't here. i told myself i was being childish. it shouldn't matter. it shouldn't bother me. let it go...it won't matter in the morning. and i listened to myself this time--because last time i didn't. we all know how well that turned out. (we should listen to ourselves more. we'd be amazed at how much we know, in contrast to how much we believe.)

i had to write something. if i didn't write this, then i would have written what i wanted to write. (because that makes sense.) why couldn't i just ignore it altogether? why can't we just shove it all to the side for another day? a room is only so big. the walls only extend so far--eventually the furniture we pressed to the sides fills the room, and you're trapped in the middle.

you'll help me figure this out tomorrow--we'll move the furniture around again, so it all makes sense, and i can find the door again. not to leave, but to clsoe it. lock it. sit in quiet isolation engulfed in music. sit at my desk. lie on my bed. stare out the window. reach for a glass of red wine. lean my head back against a pillow and pull the red-spined book from the bookshelf.

everything makes a difference--the sound of her fingers sliding over the keyboard, tapping-backspacing-advancing through this sentence to find the period somewhere after too many words. the way you sigh after lack of conversation. the sound of white noise at the other end of the line. the lengthened stare into the shadowed corners of a dimly lava-lamp-lit room. the shape of the glowing red numbers reminding me i should be doing something else. the rattled words of the lyrics on repeat. the strained expression on their faces as they remember a time when they loved something greater than themselves. the way beaded sweat collects on his forehead. the way her eyes fall on that spot on the floor, getting lost where the tiles meet in a pattern, reliving the years before, knowing they'll never see each other again. the circles we walk in--which seem to change ever so slightly. the taste of words cut and custom crafted for your consumption.

everything matters. everything changes something.

it's only a couple of weeks. he spoke with a sincere hope in his voice: it won't change anything.
she searched for him in his eyes and sighed: this changes everything.


what i wanted to say isn't here. it remains (forever)
unwritten.