What if I had a confession to make?

What if I told you that our chance meetings and awkward conversations were near painful to me? And if I told you this, what would it mean? I hear your voice, grazing the paragraph before me, waiting. Your voice is a ghost, you are that far from my emotional grasp. I feel the faint whispers of black hair, I smell the sweet dampness of your interiors and I realize that we are not best friends. I can’t say these things, everything comes out tangled, released in palpitations rather than breaths. All I know is that something is missing and I can’t seem to find it. But then, as curious as you are- nothing remains a secret for long.