Someday I'll sit you down and play you all the songs I wrote; read you all the poems I wrote. All the hopeless prose that flowed just right when everything else was going wrong. Was I bleeding on page when I should have confided in you? Maybe. I hope you can appreciate that I tried.
If trying was writing, and avoiding your gaze. If trying was hoping I could reach you through a blog. If trying was praying, at the deepest hours of the night, crying over the way the trees swayed in the wind and over the words she was telling me over the phone. If trying was half-apathy, anger. If trying was bottling up emotion, and letting it all out again out of habit. If trying was what I did, then most certainly I gave it my all.
But I didn't, though I like to think otherwise. And I'm sorry.
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