That day when you bought me purple shorts with yellow stars in the blistering afternoon wind by the sea because I couldn't stand the summer. From that day when I couldn't stand an inche's distance between you and I, till today. When I sit in coffee shops alone, merely thinking about you, having developed a silly audacity to get away from you with elan because I could never tell you that I love you. What has changed. Throughout there is the overlapping all encapsulating general disappointment with life. The repetitious loops my mind gets into, swinging between artificial happiness and perennial sorrow. A slow volcano erupts inside me, not knowing why. Mostly watching both you and me decaying in cowardice as against love. And disappearing. Into molecules and atoms. And protons and electrons. And the gigantic spaces between them. What have we got. What have we done. Except for ignoring, denying the presence of, an impending empty future. And just underneath our skin, sulking in that fear that we are being returned empty-handed. Naked and unloved. But where will the love come where there is no courage. Where the heart and mind do not collide and confess and make it known. Quiet love is only as good as no love. Only as bad as it. So say. Proclaim. Make known. Carve out the love you feel you desrve.
On second thoughts, don't. Because where does arise the need to say. Show me. Isn't everyone literate enough to just know. Feel understand. Through the gift of his five senses. And the mind. That he's being loved. So desperately. And with such impunity. If he doesn't understand it by himself, he's just living in denial. Or acting funny foolish. So don't just say. Not yet.