Pensive Twice

Another night, then, another night, and then nothing happened, but you, you told me at last…

What you wanted to hear? I said it many, many times, but you didn’t listen, you said that everything that had been said had been enough, but you didn’t love me enough to believe me, you should have trusted me. Now, where does that lead us?

Let me say I’m sorry, first. Would you let me do that?

No, because it is strange and because it is not needed. You will be forgiven in due time, under the right circumstances . Please, understand something: I do not hate what you have become, but I don’t like it either, nor do I ever want to feel that I belong in the same space as you. Do not try. Do not try to think it over.

There must be reason. A single solitary reason from where everything springs and has been seeded and then it grows and grows. It all has come to this moment, harvested at last, for our benefit. You get the sweet taste of the fruit, and I get but the crumbs, the dead skin, non-edible. I will understand if you let me, but I have to know. Tell me something that I want to hear. Make it believable, even if it is not true.

Enough, already. Just let me go. This mind cannot hold us any longer. You will not give up and I am so exhausted and hungry that any amount of death gives me rest, every moment of respite is in between sighs that are ever defeated. You have won and, I agree to that, there is no reason to continue. You don’t need any motives at all, and I don’t want to give them to you, and I will not tell you what it is you have done good, wrong, and terrible, for you have to learn it yourself, or not, and die alone.

That you could ever share me, that you could ever take me, that you could ever love me, it still messes with me. That you have all this power and knowledge and you refuse. You refuse because you don’t want to face the truth.

The truth is what you want it to be. You know that very well because you have changed it many times and I have tried my best to change it accordingly. But tell me what you see, and I’ll show what you want to see. Tell me what you’ve touched and I will remind you of someone’s caress. Feel cold and I’ll make you think of warmth. Feel dead and I’ll make you feel that there is a chance, a chance in a billion that that can change.

But now, now you don’t give me anything.

It is done. You have made a choice that can’t be changed, and I have accepted it. You will deal with this life by yourself, with this little body that you emaciated. You are not needed in the world and, as such, I am less needed here. You will love what you will become, at some point, I’m sure of it. But I won’t be there to be that with you.

You won’t. You don’t want to be.

I do not, and that is the choice we’ve both made, even if you want to pretend otherwise. Just give me the thing that I’ve looked for, and I’ll be on my way.

My passion? My knowledge? My heart? My desperation? My soul? My grievances? Among all of these, which one do choose to trim and devour?

None, but just an acknowledgement, which you have given me, unbeknownst to you. With that, I know that I do not belong here. Because you are not who you used to be, and I am all that you used to be.