Scorched Earth

I reached for you last night, and you pulled away.

I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.

I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.

Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.

A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.

So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.

This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...

Nothing.

I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.

So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.

When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.

I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?

I have my answer. No.

I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?

I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever has...no one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.

If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?

None at all.

Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?