I Can See The Beach

if I told you that I loved you, tell me, what would you say?

your lips parted, then closed, not knowing what to say.

as if love was a language you’d once known,

but forgot how to speak when it came from my mouth.

I waited, heartbeat loud in the quiet,

watching your silence answer me in echoes.

---

if I told you that I hated you, tell me, would you go away?

or would you see through the tremble in my voice,

the way hate wore love like a borrowed coat,

ill-fitting, desperate to stay warm?

would you flinch, or would you stay anyway,

knowing some wounds only bleed when touched?

---

the night air chills the blood from your eyes,

my hand burns, still desperate for your touch.

but you recoil, eager to create distance,

like I’m a frostbite creeping up your skin,

something to shake off,

something that never should’ve gotten that close.

---

I’m sick. and I’m tired, too.

can’t you see? you’re burning me.

leaving blisters in the places you once held tender.

but I’m not burning you.

you stay untouched, unbothered,

stone-cold. relentless.

it’s cruel, how easy it is for you,

to walk away with dry eyes,

while I drown just from breathing near you.

---

swim with me, I think I can see the beach.

the water’s heavy, but I swear,

I’ll carry you if I have to. don’t you trust me?

or are you just waiting for me to sink first?