In that most distant and faraway daze
And in your absolute absence, your "gone away for days"
I seem to intuit what I feel is driving your gears...
Your silence isn't ignorance, your reticence is not some cold, crude solitude.
It's unintentional yet essential; inadvertent yet pertinent; raw yet not rude.
To me your stillness seems to stem from fragility and fears.
You're not riding on waves of perfect pleasantries,
Or living in luxurious revelry in your rare retreat!
On the contrary, your mind soberly keeps all those cogs catching and turning... Keeping you awake, late at night.
You feel grievously guilty, and sinfully shameful.
A shame where you're convinced you've hurt, stressed and messed up with people more,
Thus avoid people for longer; confrontation equates to validation of the flaws we don't want others to see, and truly fear they already might.
I'm aware of what ire I may invoke by penning this:
"All well and good for you to sit there, like some self-appointed sage of psychobabble", you may think.
"Doesn't hurt you to sit there and write poetry, claiming you know me! Saying I'm apparently not mean, just scared as hell!"
I appreciate it might come across as condescending and critical
Yet I assure you it's not meant to imply that. My intentions are indeed pure.
For the thing that makes me feel and think this of you, is because I feel I'm just the same.
I'm presently writing this, equally terrified, in sincere sanctuary, facing a new style of apprehension here as well...