You always said you weren't doing anything... I questioned what you weren't telling me— the distance I felt beneath everything you said to me. I started losing sleep. Started getting told I was crazy for hearing silence differently. You said it again— "I'm not doing anything. I'm not doing anything wrong." So I learned to question me. --- "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Oh... something. I can feel it sitting between us. (We can't speak??) We can say "I love you," we can say "I'm fine," we can talk about everything except what's dividing you and I. So what's underneath? What's behind the teeth? What's the sentence we keep swallowing every time we're afraid to speak? What's the true feeling between we? Because "nothing" shouldn't feel this heavy. And silence shouldn't have this much to say to me. --- Now I'm losing sleep again... And maybe you never did anything wrong. But I breathe relentlessly through endless nights, asking the ceiling the question you never answered— What did I do wrong? Was I too close? Did I love too loud? Did I ask for something you only wanted when you needed it from me? Why can't you choose me the way you expect me to choose you? Why does your uncertainty get called needing time— while mine becomes a crime? Why do I have to prove my love while pretending I don't notice the divide? --- "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Then why did your nothing change everything? Why did I feel you leave before you ever moved your feet? Why did I start questioning the person underneath me? Was it you becoming distant— or me becoming afraid? Was I hearing what wasn't there— or hearing everything you couldn't bring yourself to say? --- You said you weren't doing anything wrong... Maybe that's true. Maybe nothing happened that I could point to. No smoking gun. No shattered door. No single night I could put on trial. Just distance. Just something missing where something used to live. Just me, slowly becoming suspicious of my own heart because it kept feeling what your words denied. --- And that's the part that keeps me awake. Not knowing if I lost you. Not knowing if I ever had you. Not knowing whether I was wrong for feeling you slipping— or whether I was right and you just couldn't say it. So— what's underneath? What's behind the teeth? What's the truth we're both protecting when we say we're protecting "we"? Because maybe neither one of us needs another enemy. Maybe we just need to stop making silence speak for you and me. --- So here I am... 3 A.M. Still choosing you inside a question you get to sleep through. And God— I don't even need to know who was wrong anymore. I just want to know... Why can't you choose me the way you expect me to choose you? Why am I losing sleep trying to find the crime— when maybe the only thing I ever did wrong... was believing your choice would look like mine? ... "What's wrong?" "Nothing." ... Then tell me— why does nothing feel like something we're both too afraid to name?
