the halves of me: the part blindfolded and bound

I sent a half-message: "Did we ever"
You took hours to respond: "Always."



Always.


Like, fuck you, man. I know you had no idea but fuck. You.

You of my ever-winding staircase, a spiral always turning in on itself. I just—

Vague, and then there's that punctuation. Completed, yet waiting. Truth, yet begging curiosity. Short, but not sweet.



How dare you pull me in like that. This whole time, really?




I know you. You communicate effectively but you are never direct. Just like me. How can I be with me? I can't even do that right now.

Fuck. That. Ceaseless. Shit.





One veiled conversation to unfairly force your hand later, and I find you were talking about something completely different, something with no weight to it.

You demand—or at least, I demand of myself with you—clear communication. It is surface talk, to me; I always think something is just beneath.

You know, like when a hidden forest pond has water so clear you can see the bottom, and it looks like you could dive with your hands out in front of you and grab enough stones for the slingshot. But you break the surface and it's so, so much deeper than you have breath for.

I will never reach the bottom.

I will never be other than surface tension.

I will never mean anything to you. Should I want to? No. Do I?













































Always.