I would listen to the words that fall out of your brain onto your tongue and get shot out of your lips. I would listen as the sounds that get formed by your vocal cords give weight to your sentences. I would watch how your lips move and curl, tighten and relax. I would listen restlessly and attentively to the way you inflict damage and the way you—sometimes—try to repair it. I would listen to you. I would watch how the muscles of your face push and pull and crawl under your skin. I would watch how the pupils of your eyes change size and how you squint and open them wide to emphasize your point. I would watch how you let your hands do some explaining when your words fall short, how you would subconsciously decide that what you are saying cannot deliver the things you really mean behind the curtains of your words well enough.
I would feel how fast my heart starts to pump warm blood to my limbs. I would feel the warmth of it at the tips of my fingers and the skin of my face, on each side of my nose. I would feel the anger. I would feel the anger jogging its way up down my body like you do at the park each morning for sport. I would listen to how my inner voice refuses your way of repairing the wounds you so foolishly inflicted. I would feel the corners of my mouth as they get pulled up to form this curve that you could only hope was out of pleasure and content.
I would tell you about all of this if I thought it would change anything.
Unrequited love aches how a stab wound does when the adrenaline is good and gone.
And I would be forced to listen to how you change lovers the way you do clothes and remain entirely and absolutely calm, but the sort of calm that precedes a storm.
And I would be forced to smile and congratulate you when you say you have met yet another mistake to give your heart, mind, body, and time to.
And I would be forced to remain the wise and nice guy that you turn to only to drag to the ruins of your emotional life.
And I would be forced to keep my thoughts shut because I know how it would go if I ever tried to speak my mind and tell you how I really feel.
Unrequited love aches and it is the kind of ache that stays, constant and lingering, sometimes dull like a headache, other times burning like a wildfire inside your abdomen.
I would tell you that I really—helplessly, genuinely, and desperately—love you if giving up didn’t seem so appealing.
I would tell you that I love you
if giving you up didn’t seem so appealing.