doughty

I am not a soldier.
I am a coward. I hide behind your vacant smile.

Before, in that summer, in the car, outside classroom doors, in a coffee shop, at a small restaurant, outside your house, we didn't see what love meant. We just took each drive, seat, sip, bite, moment as we could. I told you secrets then, as I told you last year. You told me your first secret late one night, like tonight, where I cried over a silly paper, which turned out to be very well-written. You knew me better than I knew myself, and you had just started to love me.

But now, everything is empty. You're not there. You're never there. You take each drive, seat, sip, bite, and moment on your own, in your work, or with somebody else. Sometimes I decide to come along just to comfort you. You don't though. Tonight I am writing alone. Pages and pages of incoherent relationships of the business kind, not of people. No one encouraging me to finish, nor anyone to comfort--I wouldn't allow it anyway. I don't write well anymore. Even if you still love me.

If I were a soldier, I would be brave. I would tell you things about myself. I would tell you all my secrets again. Change, we've become. You alone would find me behind my smile.