Flowers For A Grave

We never did say goodbye.

That’s what gets to me. Everything about this feels wrong.

Especially the fact that I’m counting on this piece to tell you what I can’t bring myself to.

It’s ironic how it went from when I could hit you up with anything just a month ago to this blankness.

This gaping void that widens the more I consider crossing it.

 

Just a month. What ever did happen?

 

I did get busy.

I got as busy as I could to hide. Conveniently.

I needed the space to stop thinking about how I was betraying you.

If having feelings is a perfectly natural instinct that people cannot avoid, so must be not reciprocating.

And I can’t.

This shouldn’t have to be this hard.

I didn’t sign up for this awkwardness wherein I actively avoid you every day. Every single day.

Not just you, all of your friends.

I cannot face them when they’re so integrally connected to you in my head.

It sounds like a cliche, maybe?

That this is the Friendzone. Yikes.

Except it isn’t because you never even told me.

 

So neither will I- is what I resolved.

(Can I be as petty as that? You knew me- take a guess.)

Except it’s so weird, not having a guy friend to bounce things off of.

Not getting into the most insane arguments and getting riled up over insensitive jokes that I would secretly smile over.

 

My friends swear you’re a good guy.

I know. It’s hilarious to think I’d have missed that with my keen observation.

I know and always did. I just kept trying to downplay.

 

They also tell me that it’s never too late to reach out.

Isn’t it, though?

Isn’t there a secret expiry date to all things good?

Maybe there isn’t one but I quietly wish there was one.

I definitely don’t know how to reset.

Ignoring my slightly persistent gloomy doubts about ignoring this has been quite exhausting.

So I think I have to lay it to rest.

Correction. I have to.

 

 

This is the eulogy.

I hope you never read it because you’ve forgotten I exist.

The headstone looks just like thousands of others- wasted hours, rotting with passing time and dying hopes.

The moss that grows over this one will be just that much more green, I hope.

 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.