Days turned to weeks, and not a word from you,
I wondered, “Are you dead? Or just busy too?”
I checked my phone daily, then checked it some more—
Apparently, silence was your favorite chore.
But then came the pain, which moved in for a stay,
It unpacked its luggage and wouldn’t go away.
For months it sat there, eating me through,
A terribly rude little houseguest called “You.”
And here’s the funniest part, if funny can be—
I’d have forgiven you, had you asked it of me.
One simple “I’m sorry,” one honest “I blew it,”
And maybe—just maybe—I might have said, “Do it.”
But you didn’t, so I learned, with considerable flair,
That chasing an answer from someone who doesn’t care
Is rather like yelling at clouds in the sky:
They don’t feel offended. They just wander by.
So I sucked it up, got over you too,
Though frankly, the process was harder to do.
I cried, I got angry, I wallowed, I grew—
And eventually realized I’m better than you.
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