Read Receipt Delivered

It was never so that words were left to linger

in such interminable position

as those of mine to you now sit

The spoken word is uttered and done

The written forgotten before too long

But the record kept by this type - unset -

Hourly updated, reply unstated,

Perpetual reminder of disconnect.

The fault is surely mine, though.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Were I truly set on bliss, I'd treat ignorance in kind.

It is a nagging feeling, though.

All that wondering why.

Because aren't things okay? Is everything not fine?

A little narcissistic, though,

to see things in that way.

There's a hundred reasons why you couldn't find something to say.

Is it too much to ask, though?

Acknowledgment is nice.

Just a little nod to say you want me in your life.

Now I'm biting my nails again.

The uncertainty trigger.

I had stopped at some point, I don't know quite when,

a hangover of younger years,

so much more uncertain then.

I can't help but thinking, though,

at times too much to bear;

will your leaving leave a scar

or just a space that you once were?