The book was closed.
I know.
Because it was then,
That I took the pen
To paper;
Letters superimposed
As prose
To unfold a story.
I'm sorry. I needed
To read it;
Read something not there.
Was it unfair for me
To leave you?
And weave a tale
Where I tell you
Exactly what I need to?
Instead of listening
To your silence,
I've been insisting
That it's my luck, and
Assuming you care.
That's where I went wrong.
You're scared, and,
I'm scared too. I think
For different reasons
Than you.
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