these words: meant to be heard by the ears of he to whom they are addressed-
but they will never be spoken.
to be seen by the eyes meant to see them is the next best thing-
but that vision's unlikely.
they read: "if i were brave enough, i'd say i love you," but-
i only wish he were brave enough to get rid of me. no speaking necessary.
oh, but he's young enough to be forgiven, and surely he is. no, he was never blamed in the first place. wise enough to confine his words to a page so as not to damage the fragile balance of societally driven norms and relationships. not so wise as to know their power.
it's hardly the first time he's used them, and it won't be the last, but perhaps it will teach him the difference between those words said and hidden with love, and those scribbled out in anger. the latter provides a release; the other solidifies thoughts so that they forever dig internally deeper.
i am nothing more than a sheet of paper.
i hold no power or knowledge of my own.
instead i hold words of love captured on a page. he won't physically destroy them - he's too sentimental - but even if he did they would continue to destroy him.
it feels like hundreds of years before he returns to me, but it's only barely three. his visit leaves me damp in blotches, crumpled where he clenched my sides, and i know the person to whom i should have belonged is gone when i am no longer being cried on. i am set down, smoothed out, and given words with a healing power far greater than i'd imagined:
i'm sorry
and
thank you
