I’m sorry for This

I remember always anticipating the moment that your love would one day come pouring out of you.

The day you would fill up so high, that you would have to spill your heart all over me.

I remember the tension of careful confessions here and there.

A game we played. My favorite kind.

When you were emotionally available.

Back when I excitedly waited for the day, that you would finally tell me that you love me.

That day never came.

10 years as friends
6 years as lovers
5 years domestic partners

Every holiday is about our families.
Our cat is the world to us.
Our day to day meals, identical.

We do everything together except the one thing I pine for (but can’t exactly explain with a single verb).

I am the type of soul that likes to submerge inside of someone until I drown.

But I’m always standing at the shallow end of your water.

Occasionally kicking and screaming for a chance to go deep.

I tried to lead, thought that maybe you were just shy.

And

The first few attempts knocked the wind out of me.

Like the first time I told you how much I love you, and I was met with hours of silence, followed by comatose subject change.

I had thought when I said it, it was so perfect. But I had never felt so stupid and wasteful with words.

I try not to regret it.

Years, and then

The other time I told you and you were so uncomfortable, that it scared me into never wanting to try again.

Years, and then

The last time I told you, because I just needed you to know. I didn’t want to fight anymore, and I thought telling you would soften you back into reality and gratitude.

I don’t remember your response because I wasn’t attached to it anymore.

I do remember that it hurt a little less each time...

While cleaning out a drawer one day, 5 years ago, I found I letter filled with I love yous and emotional effort. It gave me goosebumps to finally feel this side of you. I was a little mad that I had ruined my own surprise but I was also happy that it was finally coming. But as I kept reading, I learned that the letter wasn’t for me.

I wonder if you still have that letter, and why it never did get delivered to  your ex...

Reaching for your heart is now like getting used to same small failures everyday.

And now it feels like the same boring type of pain I feel whenever I try to open our kitchen drawer that’s been broken for the last five years. I keep trying to open it, knowing it will collapse if I pull too far. I don’t know why I do this... a part of me is curious I guess. A part of me wonders if I’ll accidentally fix it one day by opening it “ just the right way”.

What if one day, I open you just the right way. By accident.

Forceful, careful, accident.

I still hope for it. Deep down. Underneath callouses of fed up day to day breathe and routines. And there’s a vulnerability in me that still reaches... sweetly. But each year more bitterly.

Why was it easy for you to say that you hate me? But not that you love me?

Why is it easy for you to get angry?
But not sensitive?

Why do I cringe when you walk past me?
When I want to melt....

Why won’t you open for me?