Dear Sir: Notes on an Afterthought

This house was not built by me, not entirely.

Such an enclosing space is safe, but this warmth is an accompaniment, not a compliment…

You might ask why?...
Confused at your contentment, when compared to my own.

And my answer would be: because, you have shown me your world, and yet never cared enough to ask me of mine. You share your heart willingly, and never ask for all of it in return, all of me. You love the notion of space, but have never felt the warmth of home.

And all because you’ve never cared enough to ask.

I now realize that my salve makes our walls firmer, and though I occupy this space, these bricks were assembled before I ever decided to extend my stay.

For those who might find comfort in deconstructing, I could see how one would feel constricted.

And yet, I feel less at ease in your quiet apprehension, in your implicit excitement at my slight departure, more at a loss for every step not taken, sadder with every walk not given.

To feel as if I am the cause and catalyst for much good and disenchantment is heartbreaking. I think it would be narcissistic to believe I could be more... for you. for us.

Then again I’ve never been one stay in one place. And for as much as I love misery, I could never live there, not with you. Not with anyone. Not anymore.

We are not so different, you and I.
I just wish you understood the difference.