One Hour

I pick up the phone to call you but remember I’m not supposed to. I read back a few messages for clues. And I don’t know if what you’re saying or what you’re not saying is telling me what I need to hear. I know, I know. You don’t care. You want nothing to come out of this. Not anymore. Actually, not ever.

It’s hard for me to understand that I’ve finally met someone colder than I. Maybe more heartless. It’s taken me a few days to realize that your form of coping was in transposing all emotions onto me. What you *failed* to realize is that I am not suggestible. You excuse your emotionlessness by placing the weight of every emotion you’re supposed to feel, on me. As if me feeling the emotions for the both of us is supposed to excuse you from responsibility for everything.

I know all this. I feel all this. I understand all this.

Still, I pick up the phone to call you but remember I’m not supposed to.

I don’t know what to do or how to react. I want to care about you, in any way you’ll let me (but I know you won’t). Just as a friend. I can’t stand the thought of losing (you). Everything in my head is telling me I should separate myself from you – nothing you did merits my care. Absolutely nothing. It’s ruthless and it’s cold and it’s true. Yet, I can’t help but to want to get closer because the thought of a growing separation is too much to bear.

-Bri

“I talk to you on the phone for an hour then remember you’re [gone].”
– from Some Futuristic Afternoons, C Dylan Bassett

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