Lovesick

It is just evening
when you call me and
my heart stops when I
see your name on
the screen of my phone.
I answer, breathless
but silent, hoping but
fearful, waiting for your
voice to trickle

over the line. And it
does, with a whimper.
“Lyssie? I’m so sorry,
Lyssie. I miss you. I’m
sorry, I miss you, I love
you.” I can hear
sobbing but both that
and your voice sounds
far away.

And my heart is frozen
because I can almost
feel your own heart
breaking and, by god,
do I know how that feels.

“Oh, Ellie…” I sigh, shortening
your name – Eleanora – to
the nickname I gave you,
back then.
I’m missing you as much as
your voice tells me you
miss me. I don’t think I
can ever let you go.
“Why?”

So many emotions can be
conveyed in just one word,
and all my hurt and anger
and betrayal and just
brokennessbrokenness
bleeds into my tiny,
pathetic why.

You answer in a voice that is
almost as pathetic as mine.
“I don’t want to disappoint
my parents. They already
hate me for one thing;
how could I willingly add
another to their list?”
And I can hear a little girl
deep inside you, crying
out for her mama to pick
her up and give her just
one hug.

“What is the thing they
hate you for? How could
they possibly hate you?”
I feel like begging for
answers.

You are the embodiment of
perfection:
Why would someone hate you?