We begin with words unfiltered, like tea with its dry, crushed leaves, like cigarettes rolled tight between our thumbs and our fingers.
We end with closed spaces, emotions boxed up until they dry up and die. We have come to the bottom, to the butt-end. The tea is bitter now. The smoke has died but the amber burns us.
Our lives have moved on. But we failed to. We failed too. We failed twice, and perhaps a thousand times over.
Speak.
Regrets pile up into a mountain of salt I rubbed on my wounds. You may mock me for this, but your wounds and mine are the same. We are both stuck in a shitload of unspoken thoughts and emotions and one day it will kill us.
Speak. Speak godamnit.
I love you and hate you, as you do too. I know. And I know your anger has spoken enough for both of us, though you will not let me hear it.
One day, when I have drunk until my throat is sandy from the crushed leaves of your anger, and I have smoked all our love to ash, I will let go of the glass, of the butt-end of my love, and crush them with my feet.
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