untitled.

too often i find myself starting to write and starting with “i miss” . . .
or “I remember” . . .
or not even starting at all.
there’s this aching,
this pounding,
that forces me to remind myself
of my former lack of caution;
my former ambition with so-called
matters of the heart.
and so, yes, i miss and i remember
but what good is that going to do me?
memories only make the aching stronger yet
the pounding of my heart more distant.
how about some initiative, or
even a coy smile thrown carelessly around?
why so much emphasis on not caring
when all i want is to let myself care?
i’ve spent so long building up these walls
to protect myself
and now i’ve found
they’ve done nothing but
cause emptiness.
and what’s the fun in that?
who cares to remember the emptiness?
let’s get over it.

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