I thought about calling you last night,
telling you
through choked sobs about
why this can’t last.
“You’re an easy person to love,”
I’d say. “Of course I love you,
but I don’t know how to do it like you can.”
I didn’t call because I’m selfish
and thought about the thousands of ears
listening for whispered conversations,
waiting
to save me from Nothing.
I thought about telling you in person about regrets
and unusually soft hands with crisp tones
that make me afraid of the dark,
and about how I can’t care about you
the way you care about me.
I didn’t because I don’t want to hurt you.
I thought about telling you why
you should give up on me,
but I didn’t because I am afraid
to hear the words come from my mouth.
You should give up on me
because I don’t want to lose
what, exactly?
I can’t remember what.
Nothing.