Comments: I hate writing fluffy-ness, it never turns out good. However I make acceptions for friend's and this is dedicated to her, she knows she is. And YES it does involve two females if even the thought of that bothers you, turn back now...They don't actually do anything though.

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So listen up

This song hasn’t said

I refuse to believethat it’s only me feeling

Just hear me out

I’m not over you yet.

Frou Frou-Hear Me Out

This is Love Void of Psychobabble

It starts with a hello, a simple knock on the door; she doesn’t want to hear the rest.

So you see this is how it ends…or begins, either way you’re stuck on her front porch wish you had a way to coax her out of her humble, cozy, abode the one in which you’ve slept in a million times plus one. It will never be the same. And heaven’s that one thought is so cliché, is so common that you wish there was something more elaborate something more complex to go along with it. You just want to fill it till it brims with psychobabble, with abundance of adjectives and adverbs to explain that one simple feeling, nevertheless it doesn’t come.

But you can try can’t you, despite what will happen, so maybe you’ll do it the way they do in movies, those sappy one’s where everything, despite how utterly staggering it was in the beginning, is patched with bandaging kisses, with alcoholic words. It’s quite unfortunate, although, that you don’t believe in all things lovely and mushy because in the end this world still spins it’s reality on the unflinching truth. What’s this truth? Well now, this seems to be the sum of it, the fact that there is no ‘happily ever after’, there is of course a happy starting point however that is simply that: a starting point. Where you start is never where you end—but you can try can’t you?

Why of course you can, which is why you came prepared, at least you think you did—certainty was never a privilege you gained. You’re not too good with speaking words (heck you rarely even talk, when you do it’s nothing too phenomenal), so you dig in your bag and it feels like magic—regardless of the sun singeing your skin, and you feel like you’re sucking on sand—because you were sure that it wasn’t going to be there, positive that you were in a sleepless haze (who would sleep in your condition?) when you dreamt of having writing this inane…prattle. It’s back to the basics, you decide as you slip the sheet out—lines of illegible scribbles, and this is what we call words—the middle creased, the edge worn, and you while tossing your head in preparation hope you don’t sound too rehearsed. This is your first time reading it. The speech…or um…the letter…yes that’s right, so let’s start again. This will be your first time reading the letter. Uh-huh much better, enough of the blabber though, let’s hop to it.

“It’s not that I want anything for you,” it is initiated as such because you realize, in a rather horrified manner, that you can barely read the scraggly chicken scratch that has absolutely marred the paper. You also realize your mistake; “Shit…” you have now become one more blunder, the next insecurity. Start to rub those palms together, perhaps the magic you felt only a few blinks ago will return and presto she’ll burst through the door and encompass you and…that is naught more than wishful thinking, so you gather your wits again to make a charming recovery. Remember now you are no Prince Charming. “Okay, let me start that again,” you mumble while wondering if she can hear you from her painted maroon door. “It’s not that I want anything from you, I want nothing actually, not even your love…if you ever choose to give it to me that is―” and goodness that must sound so dirty you plunk along despite it, “And it’s not that I only wanted you for sex, I hope that’s not what—you’re not thinking that are you? Oh goodness I hope not. Hell, I should stop babbling shouldn’t I, I’m sorry, I’ll just try to get straight to the point.

“Well the point, at least this far is that if you don’t want to even consider a strictly platonic and non-romantic relationship with me well then I suppose that’ll be fine.” You’re pacing on the cement porch, the silence of your sneakers shuffling across the dirt that has been laying dormant on such an airless day. “I would appreciate it—more than that, appreciate is the wrong word sorry…I would um…it would thrill—yeah that sounds just about right—it would thrill me to no end if you thought that a relationship with me would work. But it is me isn’t it, and I guess that’s sort of bothersome.” Back and forth back and forth, you look like a metronome—damn do those things ever wear thin your last thriving nerve. Thinking about such devices tends to lead down Memory Lane (with the wonderfully cheerful Mary Poppins mother leading the way), where this whole ordeal began. Full of ivory keys, black steps, and something that no matter how many times your fingers stumbled it could never be wrong, this is where you have found your gift. It is perfect, alas its perfection wasn’t the only thing you found yourself musing over at times. There was this ever distracting imperfection, and she slowly occupied a bountiful amount of brain matter, brain power, and brain storage. Frustration, it snuck through the cracks bled through the harmonies, hummed through the melodies. You of course didn’t know what it was, and you didn’t want to know simply because you did. You just didn’t want conscience affirmation, albeit your subconscious doesn’t really lie, if you took the time to listen to it; no one does. What a shame. But your constant denial or ignoring of your feelings (don’t you abhor that word it seemed so commonplace, so everyday) only caused more problems because you became frustrated, and unfortunately she was there to guide you. Hand over hand and this would be one key at a time, sliding over silky cream and velvet onyx, your face would flush but she would laugh it off, telling you it’s okay because you my dear have passion, she only has technique. What a shame.

“But what I think I’m trying to tell you is that, yes I am who I am, I can’t change that—well I could…urgh, you know what I mean,” you’re sounding like frustration on a bad day, you’re wishing you could stop and dive right in, but nervousness has grabbed you by the tongue and you have only garbled sense of control. “I’ve tried to figure this thing out for a while, a surprisingly long while, I’ve wished it away, denied it, ignored it, and have realized that through all of that I have formed it into what is right now. It’s grown to the purest point that I myself can make it reach. That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, yet it’s what happened in my mind so I suppose it doesn’t have to. I know that you won’t really be able to reciprocate or,” and your interrupted by a sniffle followed by a wipe of your cheek, you promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, “anything that even relates to that…Damn you know I promised myself I wouldn’t cry while I was nattering away to you, but I can’t even do that right. You’re lucky, you know? You have talent…I’d love to have that, butall I have is passion, which is my problem. Exactly it. Passion fades, it dies away, you can be drained of passion, talent and technique is something that has to be taken away. It doesn’t have to wait on inspiration, it doesn’t have to be fuddled by it either.” You start giggling (this is called hysteria) because honestly, who uses fuddled in a normal sentence? At least you’ve stopped your pacing, you haven’t opted for anything better regrettably, just curled up in a ball hiccupping pathetically because crying and laughing all at once hurts.

It’s alright ‘cause you have passion.

This is your finally you decide as you unfold baked limbs, walk up to her door (the click your shoes against the heated floor), shove your hands in your pinstriped pants pocket. This is the end. “I love you alright. I l-o-v-e you—that sounds so ridiculous, but it’s true, little ol’ me and I’ve pleaded with every god I could name including God himself, that I didn’t. They don’t seem to want to answer me. Anyways I just thought you should know before I leave for good, and never have a chance to tell you again. You’re amazing by the way, so hopefully your talent will carry you far…oh can I thank you? Well I guess you don’t have a choice, thanks for everything, your smile, your hands, everything including my passion I would have never found it without you. Damn that sounded corny, but whatever. Do something for me though—okay two things: live the happiest life possible, I couldn’t bear it if you were sad.” The second comes out in a whisper, it holds something to fragile to be requested any louder, “Never say you didn’t love me too—even if it was the most unromantic and innocent of loves that you would have ever experienced. You don’t even have to remember me, just don’t say you never loved me.”

You won’t say goodbye though because you have resolved in your mind—as you shuffle down the four steps, through the grass filled with sallow dandelions (fierce, indomitable, all the things you hope to be), onto the gray scorching cement—while you turn to look back at the house with your first love, that unlike those sappy movies that you were thinking about earlier, she was never sitting listening at the door. You however, salute to her and the cloudless sky and turn too soon, to ever see her peek through the curtain of her bedroom window—she was hoping you’d ring the bell again. —‘It’s alright,’ she says, ‘cause you have passion.’—

This is love void of psychobabble.

I join thequeue on your answer phone

And all I am is holding breath

Just pick up I know you’re there…

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A/N: As per usual, thanks to all those that have reviewed and to those who will review.