I talked to you tonight. On the phone. It was a mistake.
You make noises like you have listened to me.
You pretend to know that what you are doing makes no sense. But I don’t think you see it.
You fake being rational.
I feel now like you are lost to me. Perhaps beyond the point of no return. Probably.
My heart yearns for you. But I don’t think you exist any longer. There is only a sad shell.
I act desperate. Begging you to come home. Telling you everything that I would do differently. Hoping that some kernel of what I say will germinate in your brain. Thinking then that it has, and will take fruit. But my optimism is foolish. Wishing that you could see me. But I wonder if you have only ever seen yourself.
You say that you may go to counselling. That would be a step at least. But you won’t say that you’ll avoid drastic decisions.
I think that I may hate you soon. I didn’t want it to come to that. But you are broken. A small broken thing. And while we tolerate broken things hanging around for a while, soon we will want to be rid of them.
Perhaps that will happen and I will become indifferent to you.
But for now there is only pain, hunger, crying, and a sense that there is no beauty in the world.
You said you felt empty. You have made me empty.
You needn’t worry. I shan’t be calling again.