I am done with shouting hurtful words with you when we fight. Words that came out at the heat of moment. You knew that those words are not what I meant, but why do you still take it to heart?
I know it was my fault, I knew that words can pierce your soul so easily. For you are a person who rather write all your sadness and anger in a flurry and keep it locked away. But who also share your happiness with me in delight by reading your beautifully eloquent words.
You’re a writer. I am aware of it when I was allowed a peek into your world. You made me read your chapters from the past and drafts for your future. Sometimes, I picked up crumpled papers that contain your hopes in it. I am marveled. I truly am.
However now, I fear to think that I got too far ahead with you. Am I taking you for granted, reading mindlessly without really registering it? Am I the sole reader of you, or will there be others after me? Am I selfish to keep you by myself instead of sharing your stories with others?
All these thinking just made my head spin. You’re the one who can express your feelings, but why do you choose not to at critical moments? Communication is important, and I thought we wouldn’t had that between us but it did. Oh, the irony.
I snapped back to the sound of your cries from across the room. Are you in pain? Geez, of course, I’m such a dumb fucker to even ask that.
I should be holding you but right now, I fear that you will break under my hurtful embrace. Cause oh my love, you’re too fragile.
It’s quiet now but never have I heard such a loud echo of desperation between us.