what i mean: what i say: what i don't want

I loved
Yet loving means leaving a hole
A mark on the wall

I loved
Yet loving meant crushing the little
Piece of me inside

I loved
Yet loving means pretending not to feel
The rising swell outside

I loved
Yet loving meant losing every bit
Of self preservation left here

I loved
Yet loving means, meant, and will always mean
Very little overall

I loved
Yet loving got me nowhere

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What I meant to say was I’m sorry
I’m sorry I cared
I’m sorry I said it
I’m sorry I can’t look away
I’m sorry I tried
I’m sorry I ruined it
I’m sorry I still try
I’m sorry I can’t say I didn’t mean it
I’m sorry I can’t have it
I’m sorry I still do

What I said was nothing
I just looked that way
I just talked that way
I just pretended that way
I just moved away
I just turned away
I just danced away
I just found a way
I just forced my way
I just felt my way

What I hope for is hopeless
Hopeless in its prospect
Hopeless in its endeavor
Hopeless in its inevitable failure
Hopeless in its efforts
Hopeless in its desires
Hopeless in its effect
Hopeless in its age
Hopeless in its vivacity
Hopeless in its pathetic hope

What I dream of is empty
Dreams of nights
Dreams of apartments
Dreams of furniture
Dreams of cars
Dreams of pattering feet
Dreams of gowns
Dreams of dancing
Dreams of secrets no longer
Dreams of tomorrow

What I am is more
More than this agony
More than this question
More than this moment
More than this man
More than this time
More than these words
More than this problem
More than this end
More than this

What I mean: I love you, so what?

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It all gets me no where. I don’t even know why I still write. It’s like I enjoy the writing. I enjoy the probing. It’s also a tidbit scary. I think it is more than that though. It’s as if I’m not even me. I’m not really the one experiencing it all. I’m not really the one who must go through this. I’m not really the one who feels that way. Oh no. Not me. Just my fingertips. Just print that makes me me. Just the me that appears when I write. The me that’s really you and you and you. The me that doesn’t even resemble me. The me that tries to kill it all away. The me that really hates the you that can’t love the me in love with you.