As Yet Unsaid

I tire of, every day, waking up feeling twice the fool I was the day before, you having smiled at me one night and not called the next. Having given you every opportunity to exercise some modicum of decency or consideration for the feelings of others and recognizing now that you seem to have no intention (or lacking altogether the capacity) to exercise those virtues, I wonder now if you're not returning my earnest messages is in fact a cosmic favor, done without your knowing its a favor at all.

and now I only wish to Christ I could let go of the memory of your lips to my cheek or of the ice-berg sparkle of your eyes, throwing me as they would into the sea.

They must be lies or have been. or at least are now.

Though I suspect the more pressing failure of character is not dishonesty, but a lack of courage, for whatever reasons, being as mysterious to you who harbors them as they are to me, in search of their fucking expression.

And God help me, that elicits my compassion. And, increasingly, pity.