She writes down
In a meticulous hand
All the words she has to say...
But never will.
Because they, the words,
Are too hard,
Too paiful to confess
To anyone but the paper
Who is voiceless
And a faithful confidante.
The one who these words
Were meant for
Will never lay eyes
Upon the page.
And for that,
She is both grateful
And saddened.
Maybe if he read it,
He would change.
Maybe if he read it,
He would care
And understand that he doesn't need to love her
Just so long as he could be
There for her.
To make her feel
That he needed her to be his friend
As much as she needed him
Just to be there
And show some semblance of caring.
He tells her that he needs her
That she is his best friend.
But she often wonders:
If she spilt her tears,
Would he comfort her?
Of just sit, unseeing, staring ahead?
Or be shocked, appalled,
That this paradigm of self-control
Could shatter so suddenly?
Would he know it was for him?
She writes down
In a meticulous hand
All the words she has to say...
And the tears spill down
Upon the page
As her one faithful confidante
Is ripped to pieces.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*