Unsent Letter No. 9

I almost texted you last night.

I was drunk, tired, and conflicted.

You've been on my mind a lot lately —

I don't really know why —

And I was wondering how you've been.

I was wondering if you miss me.

I was wondering if you love me:

Or, at least, if you ever did.

But those questions are left unanswered,

And I suppose it's better that way

For both of us.

I wanted to reach out and apologize

For all those terrible things I did 

And for all those terrible things I said,

But I didn't want to dredge that up.

If I'm to be a memory,

I hope to be a pleasant one,

But I doubt that's a possibility.

You have every right to hate me;

I suppose I've the same right to hate you.

I can't, really, but I have the right.

I never wanted things to end the way they did;

I never wanted them to end at all,

Yet here I am, 

Wondering how it went so wrong.

I told you once

That if I loved you yesterday,

I would love you forever. 

That's still the truth, you know.

I've fallen in love a thousand times,

And I probably will a thousand more,

But of nine hundred ninety-nine heartbreaking,

None hurt quite like yours.

Best regards.

2:49 P.M.

My head hurts.

It's a million degrees in the office.

The clock is ticking its somber song,

Perpetual, as if today is Limbo.

Tick, tick, tick.

I wonder what the thermostat is set to.

I drink some water, 

But the headache doesn't subside.

The keyboards echo the clock.

Tick, tick, tock.

I can hear the computer mice

Clicking, roving, searching.

Eternally unsatisfied, restless,

Like my knee bouncing beneath the desk.

Tick, tock, tick.

The computer says it's 2:49 P.M.

It's been 2:49 for as long as I can remember.

The clock on the wall is behind,

Stuck at 2:48, in that space between times.

Tock, tick, tick.

I'm writing an email. Maybe two.

My words are punctuated by the clock.

My thoughts are punctuated by my breath.

My head hurts.

Tick, tick. tick.