a gentle reminder

I’ve been sitting here for hours

trying to work up the courage

to say hello, to remind you I love you,

to put forth some sort of effort to rekindle what I’ve lost.

even if it’s fruitless at least I’ve planted the seed

because these sidewalk cracks are so empty without them,

and they need help being   p u s h e d   a p a r t.

but instead

I sit here on my knees, writing shameless poetry because this is my method of asking for help;

these mixed metaphors and pointless syllables meshing on the page should somehow equate

to my soul.

all you used to ask was why I was so cliche,

        why I didn’t find my own voice,

        why I didn’t try to be original so you didn’t have to listen to this

        mess that is too mundane to be the masterpiece I need to get

        out of this place:

I would tell you I wasn’t raised that way,

 I wasn’t born of independent thought and was taught to drop anything that

              didn’t come forward within the first few seconds,

that no effort was worth what came out of it,

that I stuck to what came easily because I was somehow too lost in myself to find

    anything but what I had already stored away there.

you told me that too was boring, uninteresting;

you said that even pure insanity was better than regurgitated madness,

 that if I was as crazy as I seem to think  I should show you,

 that   I should unravel my mind and wrap you up in it so you could see as I do.

you said you thought if you were in my position you’d be able to find a better way to paint

this paper canvas.

I argued that ink and watercolour are two very different mediums, that it’s harder to find the

beauty in black and white than in the pastels you have on your easel-

you held up your arm and told me to look at your skin.

I traced the thin white lines with my fingertips;

I had always found a sort of wonder in yours that lacked in mine.

you said the white lines contrasted with your blackened soul perfectly, that even that

comparison was beautiful in its simplicity and needed no colour

you ignored me when I argued that it was the red bursts of passions that spilled from them

that were beautiful, not the marks it left behind�"

but then again, we do the same things for different reasons,

and yours will always be more beautiful.

here on my knees, I can see only mine, not yours:

mine are regurgitated madness and yours were pure insanity.

I will not work up the courage to say hello, or tell you I love you

because your hello is followed too quickly by a goodbye.

I love you is not requited,

and this courage is taking too long to muster.