How nuanced is my silence?

After four days with total blogger's block I am resorting to my favourite fallback: the old poem. This is actually a newly discovered old poem, so old that when I found it scrawled in my own hand on a dogeared scrap of paper buried deep in a particularly neglected strata of documents it took several long moments of scanning three decades worth of broken hearts to identify the source of that adolescent angst. The angst is adolescent (yet timeless), the poem isn't quite that old.

How nuanced is my silence?

Each day I ignore you for a different reason.

Sometimes I am sad, sometimes angry.

Sometimes I am scared

of feeding my hopeless infatuation

with your irrepressible charm.

Sometimes I am too busy or

too tired to find the strength to face you.

I lower my eyes

and press my lips together

holding inside me

a maelstrom of disappointment

and desire, love

and hate, humiliation

and hope

all churning indiscriminately

behind the façade of ignoring you.

You know where to find me.

If you approach

I won’t walk away.