A Feeling I Can’t Bring Myself to Name

Prose Poetry

Photo by Jay Wen on Unsplash

The words trickle in like fallen raindrops through a broken window.

I love you — too late, always too late, never on time, a train that speeds to its unavoidable crash.

It’s another night of missing you for so many reasons I can’t explain, and I’m staring at a white ceiling and hoping for some kind of revelation.

I love you — too much of a closed book, always too little to convey the scope of the emotions, never just right, a declaration that comes long after the war’s begun.

It’s another day of trying to pretend I’m okay while avoiding you, and I’m counting wishes on my fingers as if somehow I’ll have the magic to change both of our minds.

I love you — too simple, always not enough, never making a difference, a ship crashing against the waves of a storm too big to tame.

It’s another failure of mine, the missing and the hoping, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I love you — too rushed, always like a resignation, never healing the wounds, all these scars that will not fade even after you’re long gone.

The words may have fallen from your mouth, but I choose not to believe them.