Paper

It is the act of listening that seems to fail

all of us.

Everyday.

It isn’t how you talk to one,

it is how you listen.

What you take away

after patient collecting.

We should communicate to others

how we ourselves wish to be communicated with.

We should say what we would want to hear,

we should trust our inner voices distinctly with our intuition.

And if it shall falter,

you shall learn;

because it is never quite as dramatic as we make it out to be

right then

and there.

One should remember there’s always

more than two sides

to each story.

And one of them contains the truth,

collectively.

All others are mere versions

based on perspectives.

One should always take into account

that one's emotions,

past and present,

cause filtration of accurate memories,

of sorts.

There's always a choice

You ignore me until you need me to smile and agree to aid you in one way or another.

The silence lasts

for weeks.

Burning into my over-analyzing head as I attempt to bounce a rarely admitted original idea off of you.

You don’t seem to realize you are

the last

attempt

I am willing to

proactively

participate in solely through

my own actions.

The ideas bounce off of empty air, and act more like a bird struck by death in mid-flight

than a wall’s reply to the sphere

that contains my mental roots.

You rush to me out of anger,

out of fear,

out of helplessness.

Because whilst you hint at suspicions that they judge you silently,

I listen quietly, pushing my own opinions to the back,

and the encouraging affirmations to the forefront.

Your passion erupts into caps-lock confessions and misspelled drunk letters revolving in a perpetual cyclone.

But when I break the silence,

in the instances so few

and far between,

you insist on quieting my clues.

But I still leave them.

You insist on quieting my fears, and my plea for your ears,

brilliantly framed by your hair.

But I continue to try to fight away yours.

And you say you can’t handle it,

and you say it’s too much,

too much.

Just like how I find myself,

in every aspect,

at every angle.

Just

too

much.

And that is when I realize why you,

my last attempts,

want so much not to listen.

Maybe I was wrong

I don't make you handmade cards because I'm cheap.

I make them because I think you'd like them better.

I make them because they're a piece of me you can keep.

You throw them away, and tell me to "put them somewhere".

You tell me, "I didn't do anything this year, I was going to but I didn't wanna go out."

I just say it's fine.

But you don't hear me, you're already lost in the television.

I don't say just one sunflower would have made me cry.

Out of happiness that you remembered, for once, something about me and didn't use it against me.

I can feel the filth in my bones.

Oh

"Sometimes I feel like you're going to let yourself die before you ever ask for help," he avoided eye contact as I focused on his mouth.
I didn't want to hurt him and tell him he was right.
I didn't want to put more damning evidence on the table
of what an awful person I really am;
how I will never tell any of you when I really need help.
When I really need you to stay,
I will never beg you,
even though I want to.

Behind the Trees

I could see your legs pushing you faster, farther away from me as I dug my heels into the soft dirt trying to not loose my footing on the slope overlooking the cove's wall that you skillfully sprinted across. I could feel the air as I moved through it, thick, and warm with the waters muted smell of mud and greenery. Your white shirt flashed in a spot of un-shaded sunlight before disappearing into the side entrance of a cement building, with stairs leading to and from the docks.

I let myself slide the rest of the way down with the loose dirt underneath me, down to the wall, the only thing keeping me out of the water, as a few rocks continued rolling past me, only stopping with a hollow plop into the murky green depths. As I moved up the stairs I could see through a wall of glass windows, into a dim and tiled room with a large, empty pool. I stepped through the over grown door frame and worked my way around the inner edge of the pool, adjacent to the wall consisting of only panes of transparent glass. I caught myself glancing at the plants at the bottom of the pool breaking through tiles, and a lonely shallow foot of water, sitting dirty and still. I  saw you on the outside, back on the continuing stone wall, and I was catching up, jumping over more inside-weeds and sprinting out the door. I rushed across the top of the wall, following your lead, under the empty eyed-windows of the darkened and quiet houses looming on the top of the hill, engrossed by the forest. As I looked back towards where you were, I could only make out your outlined figure, farther than I was expecting, turning a corner past trees that hid your intended direction. And I lost my footing, and caught myself with my hands and knees, tilting to the left as to not dive into the water on the right as I simultaneously launched my heel off the wall, directing my body up and forward, back towards you.

But I lost you yet again, as I turned the corner. And I ended up staring at more wall, blocking the soft waves of a lilly-pad plagued cove, quietly holding up the mountain and it's empty houses, absentmindedly eyeing any passer-bys. There was an old rusty bike laying on the grassy hillside, but no you. I chewed my bottom lip as I tilted my head to the right, and squinted into the bright sky. I could hear soft voices, but I could never find their bodies. 

Let Go

Your name plays like orchestral symphonies in my head. 

Sweeping symbols crash as your smile crescendos in my memory.

Your long missed laughter sinking into my mind, recalling late night phone talks.

I can hear the piano keys mashing out sentences you've spelled out for me many a time.

You flow beautifully across my thoughts, only faltering within your own confidence.

You apologize for things that are purely my fault, and promise a non-wavering appreciation. 

I want to rescue you from myself, but sometimes I'm not quite sure who myself even would be. 

So this is love..

The way your large hands produce charcoal lines sweeping into human forms entices me. The way you laugh at my suggestions of infinite loneliness, and ask, are we not already married? It makes me stare into clouds for far too long while others talk to me about things that really do not matter. The same way I would say yes if you asked me in person. The same way I'm scared to be with you because I'm not good enough, but you say "I found you attractive years ago." and ask why, in truths name, will I not move into that city with you? I wonder if you really do, or you just feel bad because I let you lean on me. I tell you every few months I tried forgetting you. But it gets worse, I guess I shouldn't try anymore, as my mind will never let you go. You appear in my dreams every night, and I wake up disappointed because I can not see your face, and hear your voice, and see that dark messy hair bunched between your long fingers in deep thought.

You get mad when I forget things, but I could never, in a thousand lifetimes, forget you, my dear.