Padraic, I

“Padriac, I.”

I can’t believe I.

I can’t say I.

No, you don’t understand, I.

I don’t think you know the gap between sadness and misery. I don’t think you watch your feet when you walk, counting the steps and hearing the taps and avoiding every ant, fly and Caterpillar. I think you charge through life. I think you stamp and kill and hurt and maim and I think you’re too salient. You’re too much.

I think you want to cry when the butterflies die out and I think you feel sad when the spiders don’t weave their moisture strewn webs every morning as you walk to work, eyes stuck to the clouded sky. I think you don’t understand the gap between sadness and misery because, to you, it is all but colour. I think you are lost between the two, wedged and broken, face tilted up and tears falling back into your eyes, leaking into your brain.

I think you are drowning in something you can’t describe.

I don’t think you understand we all are, really. I don’t think you can describe your feelings, so you crush others. I think you make me cry because your tears never see the daylight you stare at so devotedly. I think you hurt me because you are hurting yourself, but you don’t quite know. I think you read maps because you know exactly where you are, deep inside. Sometimes I think you trace France into my back, but when I turn around it’s only the wind and your calloused, dry hand bathing its self in moonlight.

I think I live in blue and you live in greyscale.

You think I’m crazy and you think you’re fine. You think it’s all okay. You think twenty four hours is a time and not a feeling. You wake up at 3am and you don’t cry and you think I can’t hear. I don’t. There is nothing.

You said

“Padriac, I.”

And I don't think you remember.