Baby it stings.
our History mocking our Present.
It seems that my questions now
For every time
My questions echo
As the minute hand teases round the clock,
Is like another slap on the face.
Hinting at me to stop intruding.
Unable to quench my interest in you.
Only satisfying the unreturned attention.
Numb to pretending that
I no longer have questions for you.
Obediently following my routined punishment :
Needing to talk to you
And having to stay silent.