If you only had one chance, what would you do with it.
The buzz spreads through my chest and at first feels warm, then icy cold.
One chance for what? He asks.
One chance for anything. Inside I'm begging him to tell me that everything he said was a lie.
But I know that won't happen. He meant everything he said.
Yet, so did I. But it's okay. By the next decade, it would cease to be an open wound. It would just add itself to the wounds covered over with scar tissue, a substance that has been collected in my chest far too long.
Tragedy seems to be abundant in his relationship with me. Silence is overwhelming when we will each other to understand just how hard things have been.
Just how hard things have been for the both of us, and that when he cries at night, it's me that's there to hold him. Despite the pain in my own heart, because who knows. His might be worse at the moment.
Then again, mine could be at others.
If I only had one chance… I would…
Comes the hesitant reply from the shaky voice.
Say that you would care, even though I know you do.
Say that you were joking.
Say that you are just fine.
Say that you would tell me you loved me. Only me. More than anyone else in the world.
That I am your only.
I would write a goodbye to everyone I care about.
No. only me.
But that's never going to happen.
The scar tissue snakes its way through my veins and over my wound.
Speaking the unspoken for me.
It's over.