It takes a brief eternity for me to fall in love.
It takes insincere major words to fall out.
I’ve never learnt to say what has to be said, I never will.
Others seem to kill time by repeating those famed three words,
time kills me as I try to find the voice to utter a single syllable.
Do I savour adoration too much, or do they merely take compassion for granted?
I can’t live whenever I remember what I drove away, which is in every waking moment.
As wrong as they could ever be; believing I didn’t appreciate.
In bitter truth?
My gratefulness to those who cared was too great for my nervous tongue to express.
Perhaps to watch the care stroll away as if it were effortless, as if it was natural, is the most painful thing for a heart to endure.
Specifically the guilt, the self-hatred, the extreme remorse towards your own breath, makes losing those persons truly unbearable.
I would never pretend to know the thoughts of the newly uncaring.
Their departure makes it clear that I never knew, that they were forever strangers.
I can always hurt that little bit more, I can surely lose another small portion.
Why would one ever wish to inflict the agony of love upon their senses?
Incredibly, I will do it more than once - as will most.
I do not believe that there is such a thing as ‘love’, really.
Basically it’s defined by force of habit, the comfort in familiarity.
Of course we all revel in discovering new and fascinating things – it’s in our nature.
But we become accustomed to that thing, allow it to take place as a form of comfort, then pursue something else.
The once exciting object might not be discarded completely, but it will certainly be shut out, pushed into the cold shadow of inconsiderate.
Though, in the case of love, it is thrown away completely.
It’s intentionally forgotten once it has served its purpose.
One character will feel freedom, the other extreme claustrophobia.
The loss, in essence, was the latter character’s freedom.
I’m in no doubt that we’ll all be broken at some point.
Battered, cracked and dropped, cascading into a million, million tiny hopeless pieces.
Hindsight is a disgusting, addictive, haunting gift.
The skill of looking back, the capacity to regret, will make victims of us all.
Even for me to hope I’ll lie smiling as I die, only regretting what hasn’t been committed is to feel remorse.
There is simply no way we can avoid regret, no way we will look back without wishing to change what we’d done, or to conjure what we hadn’t.
I will regret my lack of expression, my hidden true emotions.
I will hate the memory of lying in the arms of my loss and having the chance to whisper what they mean, but letting the opportunity pass by, purely because the moment was too perfect to disturb.
Maybe I’ll smile at the laughter, and the feeling of their comforting skin, but I’ll cry every night for the words I wanted to say all along, but avoided for fear of understating.

Shall I write you a tragedy?
I could shuffle through thousands upon thousands of conjoined syllables, until I find the correct one, the perfect one, the one which covers what little I can say.
I will slur each word, toss it to sufficient and fro inadequate, and chew it between over-critical teeth.
There’s no talent required to express what’s on my mind.
I did not put these thoughts here – my thoughts are their own, and society invented countless ways in which I might convey them to you.
If anything, I severely lack a literary talent, or a linguistic talent, or an expressive talent.
I rely on these plastic keys each labelled a – z, the ballpoint pen to paper and the liquid relief of paint in order to tell you what lurks behind my forehead.
I simply cannot find the words when approached by the questions of a concerned friend.
I watch those who can in colossal envy, adoring the image of letting those beautiful words tumble out, those sounds which will release me from quiet grasp.
How do they communicate?
My only means of communication are through these pointless black marks, which will leave your conscience as swiftly as they came, and you will continue with the everyday.
The human face can tell a thousand words.
I might be crying or screaming as I write this, but you’ll never know, unless I grant you that truth and you choose to believe it.
We’ve learnt to read the formation of a face more fluently than we’ll ever read the formation of words.
To see a single tear slide from someone’s cheek sends signals of pain and sorrow, normally inflicting similar emotions upon its witness, and all without a single twist of the tongue.
Are these words pretty to you, do your pupils widen as you read this, do you savour my poetic phrasing?
Maybe if I told you these words crush me and that they torture me every night before I close my eyes, you’d think differently of them.
Perhaps if you knew that I find every little figure and curly black line a disgusting, unpromising, cruel opportunity to be discovered and understood, but whose prospect fails by the inconsiderate hands of its readers, perhaps then you’d want to look away.
This is not pleasurable and this does not amuse me as the seconds tick by.
I am spitting out shortened lines of things I feel with startling poignancy.
Are you surprised that my youthful features and insignificant stance can formulate such apparently intelligent miscellaneous?
It pains me to write this and know that even once it’s complete, I’ll feel no closure.
The only satisfaction is in the knowledge that I might briefly make another life consider others around them.
I don’t do this for praise, I don’t type to be told that what I write is beautiful, or ‘deep’.
If anything, it’s to be criticized that I long.
Call it self-harm, call it sick, eager, lonely, art, morbid.
I’d prefer to be informed that what I write is terrible, and the only things you felt as you read it was confusion over what on earth I could possibly be talking about.
I don’t care if that negative opinion hurts me – in fact, this is what I crave.
Whether or not my considerations move you, or stir something close to nerves in the pit of your stomach, or make you feel the need to cry, is entirely up to your observational majesty.