The man who won’t talk to me.

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He won’t talk to me because i won’t talk to him.

We’re doing it again.

 

There was a reason when i was 15, another when i was 18, small ones, big ones. Some go on for years, some only for hours. Some were broken only by funerals or weddings, some were my fault, some his, some i forgot, some still hurt.

Everything gets more dramatic by the fact that i hate talking, and he hates talking.

 

He sits down for dinner at 8, alone.

I sit down for dinner at 8, alone.

But are we ever alone, really?

 

The man who won’t talk to me was there during huracans, storms, earthquakes, hospitals, break-ups, 

He never said a word, but he was always there in the middle, like a tall, dark haired ghost in a trench coat.

 

The man who won’t talk to me has no mouth but the most important things need no words.

 

And we now sit on the same white room on oppossite sides of the bench and we have no idea what to say.

-The weather? fine.

And we play with our hands, with our hair, we stare at the walls, at our phones.

-My kid? She’s doing great, she’s amazing. But i fucked up again, i need help.

-No problem.

 

I turn my head so he doesn’t see i’m about to cry, but he’s not staring anyway.

His head is also turned the other way.

 

The man who won’t talk to me never said a word, but he taught me everything.

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