From the bottom of a shallow heart
This time it will be different, I promise myself.
No more tears and no more crying. No more giving and no more taking. Because his favorite answer is no.
But he has to ruin it all. As always because I hate taking responsibility.
Irises that do not watch the rain through his uncurtained glass windows. Darkness. Everything is forbidden entry into his life.
His voice from far across where it's been raining continuously for a night and most of the day, follows a pattern. Of a song I wish I didn't love so much.
"...Parsley, sage , rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a sweet love of mine."
My mind refuses to accept what he has given. His voice which sings the unused words and suggests of an intimacy that perhaps never is. For me. The possibilities of assumption tempt me. He sang it for me.
No. I'll borrow his favorite word.