yet without fail, 4 days later:

i want t say all sorts of things.
the sorts of things that sound great and profound bouncing around inside my mind.
the kind of things that would sound like lies by the time they'd escaped my lips.
the sort of things that i fantasize as being able to touch her, to make her feel a fraction of what i feel: love, pain, etc.
things that would really just make her feel guilty, and maybe hate herself a little bit more.
things that wouldn't accomplish what i want them to at all.

i want t tell her that we was a baby balloon, always freshly filled with helium every time we talked, by every conversation we shared. s'been gently popped, all th life draining from it. all the gas that kept it filled and floating in midair, dancing like magic, eight feet off th ground, stopped by what seemed like such an inconceivably unnecessary ceiling. used t wonder why it had t be there. turns out there are nails in th attic.

but that's really all just bullshit anyways. sometimes words are just useless. sometimes you just come to an impasse.