Kind words are all lost in the soundwaves that sweep over this evening, the soundwaves that envelop this room in deepening frigidity from the blaze beneath the cream-colored lampshade to the tips of my skinny digits. Whatever wanted to be said has been washed away by the bruiselike blueness of the clouds as the sun fell into the highway. Lost in the lights that flashed past on what seemed like the opposite side of the world. Caught in the bottom of my throat, pushed down, down into the chasms of my empty shell. Why do you use your words like knives? Why do you delve into the unknown with hate on your tongue? I did not make you understand, did not say enough, did not say anything. I can't describe the moments that fly across my lips and fill my lungs with laughing butterflies. I can't describe to you how my psyche squirmed unsleeping as I wished for your presence, not when your pointy finger is in my face. I love the sometimes, the sometimes inbetween the now and the never, when I feel like I know we are both happy, simultaneously, syncopated. But lately, lately... what the fuck has happened? These remarks are so unexpected, so offensive. And I have nothing to say back, there are only thoughts that slide back and forth, black oil on a grey ocean. Are you sincerely telling me that the human race is hopeless? Hopeless to its own flaws and mistakes? That the kind words were never there to begin with, were illusions that the night put on to dazzle my eyes before the sky crashed and fell upon my unsuspecting head filled with dreams? What are you telling me? That there is no purity of heart? You are lying to my face. I tried so fucking hard to impress you, but now I am left astonished, my open waiting hands filled with nothing. Do you understand what you have done? You killed a love. You burned chords out of the mist that hung over my vision. I am displaced because I believed in something greater than being cynical and fake, something higher, better. Yeah, what the fuck is wrong with me? What hope does a mute have for poetry?

I want to talk to you. I'm not him. I'm some other guy.

I want to talk to you, even though as I type this I know what I say will only seem to reflect on what you've written in a cheapened way, and even though this awareness exists, and it is not my intention to do that, I will write anyway.

You already know that I enjoy, for want of a better way to put it, your journal. You write straight from inside the ribcage, and the spaces between the things that make up the things that constitute that. You lash out, but bravely, not to escape the light, but to embrace it, and ask why.

Many say things like this to express pain, but not the way you do. You expose yourself to express your pain. Where someone else might just focus on the villain, to push the focus there, and scratch that itch, you open yourself, and keep your eyes open all the while.

The difference could be subtle for readers in general. The difference is here though.

Your talent is obvious, and it is inexorably connected with your perceptiveness.

I hope that whatever they did doesn't make you believe that what you wanted isn't extant in the world.

Because it is.

...............................................................................................:'(....................what have i done...............................................