a s h e s

juliet: the dice was loaded from the start (late night thoughts)

you come at times like this,

when i am alone and there is no voice

inside my head, or outside it (lulling me to sleep)--

you come during the silence, which is just like you,

because you always hated silence and you always

forced anything to fill it--you fill my silence.

i think of you, and i remember: how much i loved you

and how much i hated you.

how much i miss you, and how much i want to forget you.

i've been forgetting you, slowly but surely.

i had almost climaxed to anagapesis--

but you, you decided to storm back into my life:

with words.

your words; words that i can't tell if they are old or new,

i can barely understand them, they speak of things i don't know

and feelings i'll never comprehend. (you were always more profound than i,

you always thought deeper than i, you always discovered more about the universe

than i could even begin to imagine: i suppose in some ways you are a god--goddess)

your words: they stick in my mind like glue--no, like tar. tar, like the kind that coats

our lungs from all our cigarettes (it was you who got me smoking, you know)

i read your letter, over and over. i still don't believe what you have to say.

in a way, i'm even more angry at you now.

because now i find myself in the position of waiting:

i will always be waiting for you to come home, now.

why did you do this to me?

i'm so tired of waiting for you, juliet. i'm so tired of waiting for us.

did we ever stand a chance? every story is bound to end;

but ours was just bound to run out of pages: there hasn't really been an ending.

it's as if our story stopped midsentence--and i want so desperately to know

how the plot plays out.

why did we start writing our tale without checking to see how much room we had left?

it's like when children write their names on something,

and they don't anticipate how much space their name will take--

so they end up having to write the last letter below the rest.

that was us, we chose the smallest book possible and tried to write

an entire series of novels.

where did we go wrong?

i can think of all too many times, all too many places and events and people

who came between us and shoved us apart--but no!

we only have ourselves to blame!

we lied to ourselves, we let ourselves believe that i was romeo,

and you were juliet (even if i am not romeo, you will always be juliet:

and that isn't fair, is it?)

perhaps you were the one who lied to me: you promised me shakespeare,

and that's what i expected. or perhaps it's my fault, because i expected.

i don't think anyone or anything else pushed us apart, either--

we pushed each other away, didn't we?

juliet, i wish you had never written me. i wished you had continued to let me

suspect the worst of you: you know everything that we (i) have been through,

and yet you still want to walk along the edges of hell: with or without me.

juliet, i have grown tired of this. we're too old to play these games,

we should grow up and accept that we grew apart and things

will never be the same, no matter how hard either of us ever tried.

juliet, i have loved you for too long, and i know recognize that i will always

love you.

always.

but i also know that love isn't everything,

and even though i will always choose you over everyone and anyone else:

you will never choose me, at least i will never be your first pick.

because you, juliet, you are your first choice.