If I Told You
If I told you I love you
Would it move you enough
To even act as though you've heard?
"I love you, Kurt. Doesn't that count for anything?"
He just keeps sitting there, filing his nails with so much disinterest it breaks your heart. There's a mess of papers cluttering the whole surface of his desk – unfinished articles and, no doubt, the ideas that you wrote down for him when he tried to feign interest in you by asking.
"Not in my world, it doesn't."
You can't really believe what he's saying. How could you? Things used to be so different. Maybe you're stuck in that time, the one who hasn't moved on, but your mother has taught you to believe in love when it happens, and despite everything, it did – you and him. Ever since high school. You moved to New York together and lived your lives, happy and free from the confines of Lima, Ohio.
That seems like eons ago. It's only been eight years, you're both coming on thirty, and the ring you gave him is gone from his finger.
How did your life come to this?
If I said I was leaving
Would you still find a reason
To ignore my every word?
"Then I'm going. Are you listening to me? By the time you decide to come crawling back, I'm going to be gone!"
It doesn't get a reaction. Not that you're surprised. He's been as cold as ice for the past month, ignoring every single one of your attempts at getting through to him. He didn't explain, didn't even write it down in a letter like he used to do with things he found difficult to say.
He's changed.
You think, for the briefest second, that you can see a flash of pain behind what used to be an ocean of warm, loving green in his eyes, now turned into cold, icy blue plains. It's probably an illusion – God knows you've been drinking way too much lately. In fact, you probably shouldn't have driven all the way to his office, but when you started feeling the desperation all the way to your bones, you had to try one more time before shutting off, giving up.
He's not who you fell in love with, now – he's just a burnt out shell of a beautiful man, a fashion writer with more money than he knows what to do with. He used to talk about having kids, spoiling them with diamond-studded toys and dressing them in designer rompers and tiny little hats.
Guess those plans are not on the table anymore.
'Cause I'm the one
Who waited for you
I'm the one
Who always adored you
I'm the one
Who's dying for you call
Do you care at all?
He's not going to stop you, that much is clear, and you know what you're going to do.
You're going to walk into the apartment you've shared for the past six years. You're going to pack your suitcases, turn all the happy, smiling photos in silver frames face down, and fly to Ohio like a beaten dog. You're going to visit your mom, maybe stay with her for a month or two, pop in on Sarah and her boyfriend. You might even go and knock on the familiar, heavy oak door, because you like Burt and he likes you and this is not his fault.
You're going to go back to Lima, sit by the window, play your guitar and drink. You're going to sit, and watch, and pray that something shifts and he comes back.
At the same time, you'll know he won't. You'll know what you're going to become.
And, you suppose, as you throw one shirt after another inside the suitcase and ignore the tears, you've already made your peace with that.