All You Know Is Fiction

-
I write my pains as poetry -
mostly to hide the fact I'm feeling
the loneliness in your silence.
Ironic, then, that others,
when they chance upon
the lines and verse,
find solace:
"I'm exceedingly glad
I'm not the only one",
they say.
Well I'm certainly not.
Glad, that is.
How can I find comfort
in the fact that others
feel the same?
I see subtle signs,
and it takes all I have
not to call you out on it.
I don't want to
call you out on it.
I just want things to change
for the better,
not for the worse.
Not knowing is breaking
me: I run all the possible reasons
in my head fast enough to
send my heart to cardiac arrest.
I'm feeling the distance
and I can't tell if it's because
I'm shaking and terrified
of what it means
or if I'm reacting to
the possibility
that this was never meant to be
after all.
But what I'm writing is poetry -
for all you know, this is all just fiction
for you to feed your eyes on
and sit back, in pensive thought.
What good is a writer in love?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'd put this in one of my "For my own eyes only" but I feel this is a good enough addition to the rest of my works. Cheers!

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