I Hate Saying I Love You

Wool snagged on a thicket, unravelled until the garment lost shape, became meaningless. Words trapped in a windpipe, rattle and spill, like blank ticker tape through cold emptiness. Films shown in theatres without any seats, flickered silvery snaps, nothing left to confess. Wars fought in seclusion, advances, retreats, some incidental mishaps of skirmish loneliness. Days spent in denial, slowly undone, each hour spent haunting imposed restlessness. Nights viral with craving the rise of the sun, hang limpid and daunting in darkest distress. I hate feeling the impulse, the burning inside, to speak cold distractions, dissemble, digress. I hate saying I love you, my mouth open wide, so much louder my actions than words can express.