More lovers than friends.

You ask me if we can reconnect,

But we have only ever been more lovers than friends.

To converse with you and make amends is to relive the end,

Challenge its existence.

I can’t view it through a nostalgic lens.

There is a yearning sense,

Ghost of what began.

Feelings that are now dead.

You want to dress their corpse in something else,

Play pretend with rotting flesh.

Such disrespect.

Do you not think they deserve to rest?

I know you can tell

Every look leads to regret.

Your eyes asking, "What if?"

Is it anything but romantic?

When I sit and hear you think,

Try to come up with a topic that I’d have an interest in—

Something platonic.

I know why you can’t find it:

We have never had anything in common

Other than a mutual sense of pining.

I have never discussed with you what type of ring.

Why are you so worried sick? Like silence will kill something within.

But I don’t have a single thought that makes sense.