The Apology

Like a caterpillar crawling out of its cocoon, I've begun to emerge out of the shed of love that has encaptured me for the past year and a half. Unlike a caterpillar, however, I come out of this with no chance of becoming a butterfly, of becoming something more beautiful and mature. I come out wiser, but not really, for I know that the cocoon could become my home once again. I know that I come out more scarred and with a tear in my heart that will hang forever. Matters of the heart speak not from the rational. They speak from the land of sudden impulses, from a place where what you want is what you seek, be it healthy or not. Worthwhile or not.

You feed off a dream until the water runs dry, then you suck on the dirty at the bottom of the well, hoping for one more drop, even in times of drought. The warnings signs are around and you know that. You're told, scolded, cautioned. You listen, but do not hear. You drive through at 100 mph ignoring the "Do Not Enter" signs. Accident after accident, you still reenter day in and day out. Your stomach jambles so much that you can't eat, can't smile, can't sleep. You can't talk. You can't live. You wrack your mind trying to figure out how things will work out, how what you believe will happen will in fact occur, and how she's wrong and how she'll eventually see the light. It seems like she should. In fact, she should. But she doesn't and more than likely won't. But that only inspires you to find a possibility even more. A loophole.

She hurts you. She knows this. She does it again. Not on purpose, but on instinct, in the same way that that instinct occasionally (but never enough) brought her to you.

"You want too much."
Only you.
"We're just not right."
You'll see.
"Why can't we just be friends?"
I wish I knew.
No I don't.
"Should we be doing this?"
I wish you didn't have to question.
I wish I could see in your eyes what I know is in mine. I wish you could echo the beatings of my heart.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.

This cycle continues. It goes on. Forever? God, I hope not. This aching heart will be six feet under way too soon if it does. I am sorry for you. Very sorry. More sorry for myself, for at least I realize what has been lost. This doesn't end. I try. You try. It doesn't end. Our silences now couldn't be yelling any louder.

What lies beyond these years and these tears and these walls and these hearts is unbeknownst to us. Perhaps I'll look back and laugh. Perhaps you'll look back and cry.