Words,
How have
you been? Where did you hide yourself when you were so ashamed that I felt
ashamed to have turned my back on you? I wanted to break you for not giving me
enough and for giving me too much in the wrong chances, false places, forgotten
time. You see, the better half of words has gone missing for a long time now. And
I found myself looking at people as if they own you, Words, and I can’t take
you with me, back to my solitude of smoke and liquor.
You probably got tired of
me, of my loneliness, of my rage, of my rigmaroles, of the multiplicity of my
confusion and complexity, of how I contradict myself with polarity. I might have
drowned you with adjectives. I might have choked you with my pretentious,
ostentatious, pedantic notes. You see, I did not change. I still long for you
even though you smother me to my veins, breaking me like how I break you into silence.
I know I can
do anything to you. The poets do not own you. Nobody owns you. Do you own me? But
how could you? You are just words.
And I have
lost you.
How can I find
the right words to say this is not good-bye?
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