"It is just a simple text", says my mind, at two in the morning when silence has infected everything but my own breathing which sounds like a broken piece of an unwhole music without your contrasting breaths to mirror mine. Just a simple text, nothing intruding, nothing embarrassing, nothing more than what it needs to be and nothing less. Just a simple text to remind him that I am still here - in this same world as he is. To tell him that I am not alright, to check if he is alright. One simple text.
The shield of my masked strength is thinnest at this time of the day, when my mind slips indecorously out of its shell of sanity and begs for one text as if I'd ever be able to get what I deserve. My mother says that I should be careful of who I extend my hand to, because people tend to grab more and more, until they are in hold of your whole arm and dragging you into the marsh of misery you were trying to help them out of. Until you are stuck in their swamp of torments and each attempt at rescue is only going to submerge you more into this pit of hell. And this is what I can't stop doing. I can't stop myself from extending my hand to you, even while I drown I try and push you towards the shore. I thought this was love. I hope it is love, or else I am just really sick.
I keep hoping for you to grab my hands too when I have given all of my strength at not letting go of yours. It is a forlorn place to be at - my pretentious will discarding its veil in weak nights - displaying how pitiful I truly am to still lament for who has long left. As if just a text would fix anything. As if just a text would mean anything at all.
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