Sometimes I think I'd like to see you again, but then I remember that I have nothing to say. Funny how time can rob you of so many words built up over a period of it. I had many words to speak to you; words I never got the chance to. Too much commotion, too much distance, too much absence. Too much something. Always too much something. Always never enough of something. Honesty? Reality? Mutuality? Perhaps I'll never know. Perhaps I don't even want to; time may have been protecting me all along, sapping all of the intensity away, transfusing the apathy from you to me, and who knows? You may have received all of my empathy in return.
All those many words I had inside me are gone, and I find myself not even being able to imagine a conversation with you anymore. Did we really ever know one another? I begin to forget. The only proof of a meeting at all are the photographs I have putting you and I at the scene of the same crime. We discussed the matters at hand and parted ways.
You are a good actor.
I am a good actor.
It is strange how sometimes even with the absence of closure, there is a definite end. . . .
