Ache by Charley Ward
Do not ask me to articulate how I feel, or why I feel, or what I feel in coherent sentences, because I cannot. I cannot look you in the eye and tell you what I am thinking. Trip over my tongue in my mouth, stutter, words flow too fast, too many pauses and fillers and nervous laughs, bite lip, grin, blush, pull hair, brush fringe out of my eyes, look at you and look down and hold your hands, trace the lines on your palm.
Do not ask me to tell you interesting things about me, because I am not interesting. I am two parts you and one part helpless. Two parts lost in your skin and your quirks and your shoes and your hair and your humour. One part waiting for your call, waiting for your touch, ache, I miss you, tears.
Do not ask me to tell you what I am thinking, because the answer will always be the same. I cannot do anything right. I cannot get anything right. I stumble through these weeks; oh, no. Not again, what is it this time. Pay attention, look what you’ve done. Oh, no.
The words come out wrongly, insensitive, sarcastic, bitter. Walls well and truly built up, I shall not tell you what I am thinking.
But I can write you these words. I shall write you my words.
These words are for you.
Please know that I would rewrite the sky, I would rewrite gravity to keep you here for one more moment, to keep you here with me. It’s yours to hold in the palm of your hand. I’m yours to hold in the palm of your hand. Please stay.
Anything for you, my darling.
Writing Contests 2010