I Would Tell You This

I'm sitting in my room, holding the phone in my hand, debating whether to call you or not. If I called you, I don't know what I would say to you.

I wouldn't pester you for reasons.
I wouldn't ask you what you thought went wrong.
I would tell you that I'm standing right where you left me, in the rain, confused like a child & helpless like a cripple.
I would tell you that I miss your laughter, the way you would fall over, clutching your sides because of something I said or did. I pray nothing steals that laughter.
I would tell you that I miss you telling me that I'm amazing, even though I know that's not true. I pray nothing changes your perspective.
I would tell you that I miss the way you'd complain about everything, even though I hated it. I pray you find contentment wherever you are.
I would tell you that I miss you.
I would tell you how I'm not angry or offended or confused, but hurt, and maybe broken. But the beauty of anything that is broken is that it can be fixed.
I would tell you that I still close my eyes & see your face, & I reach my hand to yours & feel the warmth & gentleness of your hand in mine.
I would tell you that I'm afraid of waking up in the mornings because I'm scared that the dream will break & you will again be out of reach, just a bit too far.
I would tell you that I'm standing right where you left me, in the rain.

So, I'm dialling your number, hearing the dial-tone, I hear a click as you pick up the phone. But I hang up before hearing your voice. I've suddenly realized I have nothing to say.