Sent

Sending things always make me anxious
I sent
a picture
a word
a message
a story
a moment
a feeling

and now

I am waiting
for a reply
for silence
for nothing

and I
don't know if I
fear want the silence
or the answer more.

Word(ling)s

  I sometimes make an effort to try and write again. Not any kind of serious thing, just write towards no particular end, without a mapped out way or even reason, small, poor attempts to get back that stream of consciousness. In my mind I am always writing, translating every moment, gesture, emotion into letters that form words, only to exist momentarily, long enough to be formed and then immediately erased, never reaching a paper surface.
  Maybe that explains my relationship with the world. Maybe that is exactly why I always feel so disassociated from the present. Because I am not present. I am writing, or directing, or watching but rarely acting. I managed to grow a bit large for own shell but then I shrank back again and later grew immobile and cold.

*

  Except it's not cold. It is, in fact, so suddenly hot, so overwhelmingly hot, scorching the shreds of me, it sometimes feels like the body is

wrecked

  from tidal waves on the inside.

*

*

I only realised just now
There are days
When I don't think about you anymore.

And it's been
years.

My words were clumsier
but at least they were
passionate.

It's not like I have forgotten how to write.
Well, may be that too.
But mostly
I don't have
what
to write about.

I don't have a who
to write about
in the sense that
I'm not a who
myself.

Sometimes I think I am not living
just playing along.

I've broken
through
many barries

but never

my own.

Wimp

  I am a wimp I guess, in may ways. The lines are set, the walls are built, the door is closed. All are welcome to leave, none is welcome to enter. I realised recently, I am so set on this belief, this expectation of disappointment, I am a romantic for everyone, except myself. Words either fail me or die on my lips, I feel as if I never reach across. Perhaps it's why I thirst to reach and touch, fingers brushing on skin, I shiver at the thought of this fragile connection - I've grown so disillusioned that I don't see anymore.
  I realised that nowadays I always make sure I can creep out of peoples lives silently, unnoticed, the sound of the door so subtle, low, they won't even realise it. I'm afraid of making an impact because then others will make on me too.
  There's too much doubt on who I've touched.
  We fear what we crave.