I wonder. The next time I say the words, I wonder if I'll do so as a whisper or as a shout. Or as a scream.

So many times, I've bitten my tongue and walked the other way. So often, I've rambled on and on about anything and everything to distract myself until that moment, that moment when the words needed to be said, had passed. So many countless fucking times, I've picked up the telephone only to slam it back down to its resting place.

And I write. I beat around the bush. Time after time I bring myself right up to the edge beyond which the words must be written, but I stop myself. Each and every time, I hover my toe over that line in the sand only to pull it back and then pat myself on the back for my great show of resolve.

The words don't give up though. They fester inside me and they wait. For that inevitable moment of weakness. For that sought-after period of clarity. For that first opportunity, that first instant when I've forgotten that they're even there at all.

That's when they'll make their move. That's when they'll escape.

And then I fear that they'll be gone from me forever.

Don't get me wrong. I want to say the words, but I don't want to waste them.

I want to say the words.

I just want someone to be listening when I do.