If I could write a letter to everyone I love, to anyone who's affected me, I would say that I'm sorry.  That tired old phrase.  I would apologize for keeping this ravine of distance, for acting like I knew when I didn't.  I would tell them that I should have made the effort, instead of leaving it in their hands.  But I've lost my ground, and I'm well out of the time needed to carry out this laundry list of plans.  My skin is weak, and this spirit unwilling.  Maybe my mind was capable once, but it's lost the ability to process what you're expecting of me.  I know I signed up for this, but you should have known I never had it in me.

When I run into that part of a song you had written on your notebook, I'll feel like I've found some part of you out. But I guess that's the main issue - I'm still rushing to catch up and see what you're all about.  You deliberately conceal it, while I'm showing you my insides.  And you know I should be embarrassed, but I just haven't quite caught on yet.  This only happens later, when my eyes get wide in the dark of my room and all of my blood rushes to my vitals.  I catch myself having the same hypothetical conversation, this pathetic recital of the insecurities you feed off of.  All I'm trying to do is participate in the dialogue while you go out of your way to make sure I understand the fact that the things I say hardly even compare to some inconsequential pop song.  And for whatever reason I keep tagging along.  

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