From now on, I won’t send a paragraph to someone who can’t comprehend its depth
It wasn’t even that long nor written with high-flown terms, but I guess nothing can make my message enough because I was the sender.
I am always the one with lips that don’t sync with words, a heart that doesn’t pump feelings, and who has a keyboard without intentions of using its letters to combine a sentence for someone to read. So it feels readily illegal to put an ink on my mundane post-it notes.
How I spoke myself out had touched me on levels that seemed to open the gates to heaven. This is how I show love, I guess? Yet the dictionary failed to inform me that the words I want to hear weren’t available to respond to me with mastery.
Is this really all I get? Because the library I built to collect the guts to confess was destroyed by someone who was silenced or maybe was never brave enough to swallow the pride, which soon became a tower to show me how I talk nonsense.
But maybe I know now why, for I recall those empty days when my texts weren’t addressed seriously—the conversation between us got frozen and was hard to crack by a receiver who didn’t actually read.