The Lonely

It's simple.
Really; so, so simple.

Just a few sentences. A handful of words. Strung together to form lines of thoughts, with hidden meanings tucked between.
But she doesn't know the meanings.
Can't crack the code, can't understand when only now does it matter.

Oh God, how she wishes it was in person. Or at the very least a phone call. You can hear emotions, but you can't read them; not when they're wrapped in cold, surgical-like letters.

She's curled, hunched, reading those sentences and tapping out a reply while silent tears form slowly in her eyes.
She'd forgotten.
How could she forget her?



How, how, how, how, how, how, how, how?

It makes her sick. Makes her sneer at her reflection, wiping a pinky at her tears and tasting the salty liquid.
She contemplates deleting the 3 words she'd added at the end of the message, "I miss you." and it makes her dizzy because she doesn't know what she could've done better, how she could've gripped tighter onto an already-slipping hand.

And it hurts more then ever because even though she's never seen the face, (only pined after pixels) never heard the words (only giggled at stoic black letters) it's still as cutting as her last abandonment. Still as breaking and tearful and strained and people are leaving and she can do nothing, she can never do anything.

She tries.
She tries, so hard.
She tries to keep in touch.
Begs for emails.
Claims her ears are always open.
Whenever you need me.
Please.
Please.

Please talk to me.
Please don't leave me.
Please.
It's happened too many times.
Please.
I need you.
Please.

But they never listen, on purpose or because their ears are clogged, their eyes focused on something other then her weak hand, she can't know.

And she finds herself doing it too. Finds herself slackening her grip, edging away. And that kills her even more, because she knows it's inevitable but she's pathetic, so, so pathetic, and in denial, so she refuses fate.

And only suffers more as a result.

Only makes it last longer.

And it'd be easier, she knows, if the other hand, the outstretched, welcoming hand, were still as bright as it was before. Still as tainted with possibilities and ideas and beauty and stardust.

But it's not anymore.

The future is beautiful no longer.

So she clings to those who's futures are already set out, already snatching their hands and dragging them off.

Don't leave me.

You can't.

Oh God, please.

Please don't leave me.

And their futures will happen, whether for better or worse, but looking back over the emails, back over the ignored questions and poignant periods, she can't help but feel something is so, so wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

And she can't crack the code, can't figure it out when only now does it matter.

So she leans her back against the wall and slides down into a crouch, cradling the email and trying not to get tears on the touchscreen.

There's nothing she can do.

Nothing she can do.

They leave, one by one, hand in hand with their futures, their lives.

And she stays behind.

Crouched.

Alone.

In the dark.

And still, the hand is offered in front of her.

The mysterious, unreadable hand.

It's all thats left.

But she remains there, stubborn as ever, crying in the dark and glaring at the hand.

Someday she'll cry her last tear.

She'll get up shakily, wipe her tired eyes.

Maybe run a hand through her hair.

And then, she'll take the hand and follow it into the dark unknown.

Into the never ending Loneliness.

"Dancing slowly

in an empty room;

Can the lonely

take the place of you?

I sing myself a

quiet lullaby.

Let you go and let the lonely in

To take my heart again."