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.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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