The Mute.

I have trouble filtering all the disappointments
my chest aches with every thought of
what could have been
had I only been more vocal,
had I only been more honest.
Now I look into every possibility
with regret.
I see myself making the same mistakes.
I see myself making the same mistakes.

Something that feels this strong
can crush you,
and beneath this weight,
this familiar make-believe
anticipation,
you are crushing me.
Don't lead me to lead myself on.
It is not your fault; I am just
a fool in love with the idea of this foolishness.
A fool who needs someone to make him a fool.

I cannot shake this obsession,
but i can shift it at will
to somebody more friendly to my
frail structure, someone who can
accommodate my ideas of possibility.
And someone with whom
I may forget.
With whom
I may forget you.
But I find myself making the same mistakes.
I find myself making the same mistakes.

For you were the very same thing.
You were the very same thing
as she was,
and as she will be.

All a victim to my silence.