I Do Not See What You See

In epic self-loathing I let the phone ring, knowing how you interpret silence but hope for a psychic storm to send respect from a thoughtless martyr across 30 miles of invisible space. This contradiction believes in hope but bears none; thought doing right by you was as simple as words (spoken, perhaps, in haste but not insincerity) when every step forward was impulsive, marred by guilt for a twice-lost picture of a life I never really lived. Flawed, perceptibly, and unable to believe that there is grace in weakness when it stays my feet in time as you move...