And I Said

So now calling on the phone is the OK thing to do
when I've barely gotten used to being happy in my skin alone
and you said that she misses me, that's right, I know she does,
and I said I miss her too, and it's true, I really do,
but what about this getting around the idea of missing
when it could be me and you trying to say the same thing too?

I liked hearing your voice, it reminded me of drinking tea at a glass table,
while pasta cooks in a metal pot large enough to fit your head,
and when it's OK to think of the future as endless doubts, end on end;
it still feels that way, I guess, but now I get to have those conversations in my head,
and try to give people the feeling that I am alright with not knowing when I go to bed.

And you told me I'd do well, as you always said I would,
I laughed at your stories - I've never said this, but you tell them well -
but, for the moment of silence that drops into the midst of familiar talk,
I was suddenly reminded of where this can - or cannot - go,
silences that, once, would be filled with "I wish I could see you" -
now a speechless hole in an already-wounded story.

I dislike liking you, I hate loving you, I wish it would stop.