A note for you

I’ve got some things to say to you.

I know I shouldn’t, the conversation has been dead for ages. But still, I find myself looking for the answers to unasked questions, waiting for something that was never said, was meant to have been said, is still lingering on the tips of our tongues, the edges of our lips.

Lips that crash against one another in a supernova explosion of the desire we keep locked away—
Or was that just me?
Was I making it up in my head?
When you hugged me like that, squeezing like there was something… something you wanted me to know but it was something you couldn’t say. 
I might be lying to myself, but I want to believe I know you better than that.
I want to think that when you said that we’re too stubborn it was a lie to yourself as much as it was to me. A feeble attempt to set us free. 
Free from this nightmare blend of whispers in the night that never reach the other’s ears.
And that’s assumming that while I’m whispering, somewhere you are too. That while your laugh and drink your wine, someplace in your head, you’re thinking of:

Sitting on a couch with my head in your lap as we read our favorite passages of books out loud to one another while music plays in the background.

Walking in the sunshine with smiles so big our faces hurt and it only gets worse when we look at eachother and ask, “what?” Like we’ve been caught doing something wrong. Like just looking at the other should have been forbidden.

And maybe it should be.

Because it’s late.
And I’m late.
My words are late and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I have to be sorry.
And I’m sorry that I still love you.
I love you, and sorry doesn’t cut it.
I love you can’t change a thing.

But I need to say it because I feel the weight of it crushing my chest and holding me by the throat in every waking moment. And when I finally go to sleep, all I see is what could have, should have and it taunts me.

So I love you. 
Even though it doesn’t mean a thing to you.

Or maybe that’s a lie I tell myself because I’m scared that you weren’t lying.