There have been times that I sent myself the emails I wrote you

I spill.
I enclose a disclose,
then, I send it to myself
because we don't talk anymore-

Thinking, 
if I accumulate these messages,
when you finally wake with some sort of audacity,
inquiring about why I never tried,
I will hand it to you-
all of it
because it's a matter of time before you forget that someone cares.

This cycle of you is repetitive with forgetfulness-
used as an excuse to disperse-
A grand exit

I know you-
you'll fall to the floor wondering why nobody called when you pushed them away,
why nobody pushed back,
thinking someone is meant to save you-
that your story only ends happily due to enforcement,
like you somehow deserve it this way-
naturally,
people should chase
and pursue
and swim in misery that belongs to you, and you alone

But I don't instill
I only quietly insist
I don't believe in the effort of saving
nor changing
nor convincing

I don't bark up trees
hunting for squirrels
who are more fur than a meal in meat....


but, I do write you,
because I like to be right.