I won’t know you well enough when you’re older. You know why I write it down? You don’t care to hear it from me in person. It’s better heard if you’re not quite sure who it’s for, where it’s from, when it’s sent. I’m not quite sure what you want, where you’re from, what you’re getting from these hiccups in the road towards saying we’ve done this for fifteen years. So proud to have gotten through those times of broken heart, heavy eyes, hurting head due to the hours of screaming back and forth. So filled with anger unexplainable, we throw a bouncy ball out the window as far as you can, bounce a ball at the wall a few times to compare how self hurt could be greater than or equal to hurt from someone else, something not physical. Those are the memories, cheers to the getting over it and remembering it again because it happened again. The living together but separate and greetings are the only times we interact for weeks and sometimes months. I don’t think you know me. We don’t spend enough time living life together, we spend it watching a show, avoiding meaningful conversation, stuffing our faces to feel something. And keep eating until we’re tired, say good night and wonder if our dreams will bring pleasure, show us a life we prefer to have with the people we prefer to be with as the people we prefer to be. Wake up impatient, sad and resentful at the choice made to try again. At the choice to lie as friends, you don’t know me. Counting the years until obligation runs out of time and I throw up hands in the air saying where’s mine. All the sacrifice and energy and faking it you asked for, waiting for it to be real now. Where’s the love we were making all these years. Where’s the money we’ve been saving, all those tears, you’ve been waiting to cash in, saving showing emotions for when it were to benefit you and your own future just me staying in it somewhere. You and your own home me just laying in it somewhere. Where does it get you, alone in a house that you’ll want help keeping up with but you’ll suffer quietly knowing that it’s guilt that keeps you from asking the ones closest to you to visit more, stay longer, say more. All those times you prefer to say so much and mean not a thing true, all those times you lost track of what you said and what really happened, a soundtrack in your speakers playing for you a collage of made up and made wrong, you just want the quiet. The quiet that comes only from comfort with a person you trust, because they trust you, because you were trustworthy all those years. When you’re older, what will come back to you? I wonder, cause I don’t know you now. Won’t know you well when you’re older.
top of page
bottom of page