I wanna talk to you. I want the spaces between us to be filled with words. Even if they aren't the sweetest. Or not even sweet at all. Even if they're charged with bitterness or fear. Even if they're only hopes and dreams. As long as they connect you to me.

Amid everyone and me are sentences and paragraphs - icy, hollow, pretentious, salutary, jovial, hilarious, preposterous, warm like coffee, tender, or cute. Phrases and clauses that complete by themselves. Above us is a sky with clouds of condensed letters and other symbols that precipitate as conversations.

But such is not our case. We are lines that require reading in between. We are lines that never meet of paths that never cross. Parallel. We are not connected. Or we are. We are connected through each other's silence. Non-verbal cues that very seldom take anyone anywhere. A mute mutual understanding that if the spaces between us are filled with words, and you and i connect as sentences, we become complex.

Or we are complex. And if stringed even further, we are to become a poetry that nobody will comprehend. A poetry that for generations dead and alive very rarely understood. It's complicated. So, don't talk to me; I'm never talking to you.