An Inconsistent Love Confession Note

“Just tell him.” 

I can’t! 

I can’t just tell him that as I sit here I hard to stop thinking about him. 

I can’t admit I only think about him, 

because I know that I probably don’t cross his mind once. 

His mind is a bridge, 

between two different worlds. 

One world I’ve been stuck in for so long, 

the other world that I’m dying to fully experience.

A wooden bridge between a friendship and a relationship, 

over a raging ocean of uncertainty. 

I can’t just tell him that this bridge-like mind of his is a bridge

I’m terrified to cross cause if I cross,

not only do I know I’ll never want to leave, 

but I also know that I wouldn’t know how to take it. 

I’m only uncertain because he doesn’t know how to communicate how you feel. 

This keeps me guessing, 

leaving me to be uncertain with exactly how I feel. 

Making me question my love and my means of showing it. 

How can I tell him that as I lay here worrisome is causing

memories of us are being reshuffled, moved around, 

manipulated like a deck of Uno cards, 

that’s made out to make me loose? 

I mean I don’t mind playing, 

but if this is a game with the intent to make me lose. 

I just don’t want to get my hopes up. 

Hopes being up is something I should be used to having. 

He keeps me guessing, 

keeps me at the edge of my chair like an anxious moviegoer

that is watching her own life as a film, 

yet still not aware of what’s gonna happen next. 

I don’t wanna know what comes next, 

but I know you can’t always get what you want. 

I can’t tell him that he is what I want. 

I can’t! 

No, 

I can’t tell him because I know that his mind, 

the amazingly structured bridge that it is and knowing the fact that I never cross it. 

I know that isn’t the only thing I never cross. 

There are probably no feelings there, 

leaving me to having one-sided feelings. 

I can’t tell him because I don’t have the guts to. 

I don’t have the guts to tell him because I pored them all out in texts

all my heart needed was for him to read. 

I can’t tell him, 

that once and a while I’d refer back to the texts, 

hoping he’ll surprise me and understand what I was saying. 

All that happened was me yet again being shocked that I fell for it again. 

I can’t tell him. 

I won’t tell him, that I fell for it again. 

“It” being love. 

I can’t tell him, 

because I know it’ll go. 

I can honestly predict that it’ll go the same way, 

the conversations I have with myself before I gather up the remnants

of the guts I didn’t pour out on unread text and try to tell him face to face. 

I can’t tell him that every time I look into his eyes, 

I forget how to speak, 

every word that I initially wanted to say goes unheard, 

then later diluted into ink that smeared neatly on paper like

the eye shadow I’d put on my eyelids hours ago. 

Just to be smeared on a napkin dampened with a natural makeup remover. 

I won’t tell him any such thing. 

I won’t tell him that when I miss him, 

which is often I play the music he lured me into a room full of, 

caressing me with each snare-drum and 

washing away without a shadow of a doubt that each

moment in there with him made every moment away from him worth it. 

I can’t tell him that, 

not seeing him burns a hole in the day that already seems like has gunshots in it.

I can’t tell him, 

because I’m terrified of the cricket silence I’m bounded to face after I tell him. 

Or worse yet, 

I’m scared of the deer in the headlights stare I’ll probably give, 

once I tell him that this is important, 

with the intent to be serious, 

to help portray the topic’s importance. 

I can’t tell him I love him and deal with the pneumonia chest compression-like pain 

when the reply I get is 

“I love you too, 

I care about you” 

with the encrypted sisterlike love being exposed. 

I can’t tell him. 

Not in person. 

Over the phone and the tears smeared on 

paper won’t work either. 

I love him. 

I can’t tell him I love him so much, 

it’s killing me that I have to let him go.