the quiet things that no one ever knows

it was almost like sitting and waiting, frozen and stiff and pretending so, so hard that everything was fine like maybe if i faked it hard enough, i might believe it. i was playing at still being in love, wrapping the days up in a thick layer of haze and lazy hands managing to somehow find each other and swing slowly, rhythmically. it became habit, words translating easily from mouths to fingers to keyboards and brightly lit screens in early winter darkness. habit, like buying you cigarettes or waking to your voice at unearthly hours when i hardly dared to whisper; like asking thoughtlessly if you loved me and not caring that you lied when you breathed out a "yes". those last weeks were more like a show, a choreographed song-and-dance while i waited for the vase to stop wobbling and just fall off the table already. "you'll kill me someday, won't you?" but there isn't any doubt in your voice that i already have, and the admission of guilt comes out of your chapped lips with a cloud of smoke, the way it did when you whispered "i love you."
"i loved you."
"i like her."
"[goodbye]"

CRASH

i've stepped on so much glass but no one knows