Style: Poetry
Writer's Statement: For that person, who sat with me and the geese when the chrysanthemums bloomed.
it doesn't matter to me anymore
i say, when i don't know
if it ever mattered in the first place
or if it's really mattered all along and i'm lying
you're here, isn't that enough?
i can sit out the discontent if you'd
sit here with me
isn't that enough? that you're
breathing still, and so am i
you can sit there if you don't judge me when i cry
what more can i do? i don't know
how it'd affect me, if you or i die
you're placid, i'm asking; you didn't tell me why
why do you think i would question you?
i can't tell if it's what you believe, that i
would not, could not, have you care
it's only that i'll never ask; if i matter to you
you'll do so, say so, bring it about
if you don't, i tell you okay. whatever.
at two am, when five “whatever”s later,
it's kept me awake for over a year
or perhaps it was actually five minutes, who knows?
time crumples your true-hearted words to lies.
i watch you as you watch me, minutes trickling by
you're not–and don't want to be–my savior and i couldn't be yours if i tried
so i do the same, but i won't ask anymore
it doesn't matter to me, anymore
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