Poems Of An Unrequited Lover

Nick Oliver
Nick Oliver


You make no effort to prolong this any further.

I ask you.

All you do is agree.

You set no dates, no times. Just a “yes” period.

Like a nonchalant nod of acknowledgment, a “oh, you again, hello.”

You can’t even commit to three extra words and a question mark. “Yes, how about Friday?”

You don’t even care enough to capitalize your Y.

Maybe it’s fear of showing emotion? Is it because of the heartache you try and hide?

Or is it some sadistic disposition you have. Making people want you, just so they can find out you don’t want them.

A period implies the end, a closure.

. you don’t want a conversation
. you don’t want to set a date
. you don’t want to set a time
. you don’t want me

Closure seems to be the one thing I don’t get.

Clever trick.

I let him in again.

We spoke again today.

After weeks of silence, I spoke first.

You mentioned how you thought of me yesterday.
It made my insides curl up and seize, my breath hard to steady.

He thought of me.

I thought of him always.
But why didn’t he tell me he thought of me?
Why didn’t he speak first?

enough now.

You should know how I feel.

How my anxiety spikes when I think of you.
The constant pressure on my chest, the cold sweat, the hyperventilation.

How I get chills at the mention of your name.

How I think I can face you but end up coming undone.

You should know how I feel.
The ache, the immobilization.

I tell myself I have to come to terms with myself first.
I’m not ready for you to know,
for you to see my downfalls.

So, enough of the pining,
the yearning for your acknowledgement of my existence.

Enough of the pain, the disappointment.

Enough now.

May my heart rest.

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