A million words would not bring you back.
I know, because I’ve tried.
Neither would a million tears.
I know, because I’ve cried.
I sneer at the poem, crumpling up the paper and throwing it at the nearest wall. It bounces off and lays discarded on the rug next to an empty box of Godiva and one chewed-up sneaker.
Pulling up a new sheet of paper, I try to come up with the words to convey my feelings. Try to come up with the words to express my pain. Try to come up with the words that will make my reader cry. Cry like I have.
When the words do not come, I sit back in my hard chair and concentrate on not remembering your voice, or your smile, or your beautiful eyes. I try not to remember the way your toes curled at the sight of anything bloody. Or the way you filed your nails while I cooked. Or the way you brushed my hair at night.
One stray tear makes its way down my cheek; I brush it away, annoyed with myself.
I realize now that I’ve made a huge mistake. But it’s too late, now. You’ll never take me back. After all the pain I caused you, anyone would call you a fool if you take me back.
I still remember the way your eyebrows clenched when I broke it off. The way tears filled your eyes like they fill mine now. The way you didn’t speak like I cannot now. The way your teeth clawed at your bottom lip like my own do now.
I look around my ransacked room, taking in the disaster. My drawers lie helter-skelter with clothes hanging out of their wooden confines. One vase is smashed against the wall. The tulip it was holding is in the middle of the shattered mess; glass shards pierce its beautiful petals. Other remnants of my angst-filled temper tantrum are discarded when I find my tulip lying in glass.
My tulip. You gave me that tulip. At a fair, in the middle of the noise and banter, you pulled a tulip from behind your back. I remember smiling brightly at its rare orange color.
I lightly pick up the flower at its broken stem, feeding it with my salty tears. I destroyed my tulip. Unintentionally, I destroyed my only remaining link to your heart. Tulips were your favorite, too.
I wipe away my tears. Placing the broken bloom next to my blank paper, I pick up my pencil again. I sigh.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad. I quickly jot it down once more.
A million words would not bring you back.
I know, because I’ve tried.
Neither would a million tears.
I know, because I’ve cried.
