Pushing And Pulling Poem by Riley Choma

You didn't say much about it then, and still haven't now.
Perhaps it's because in the three words I had said, I had also said too much.
You brushed my words off like you brush the snow off your windshield in the morning: like they didn't matter.
I'd like to think you did it to avoid hurting me, but I'm not sure for one hundred percent that I do.
Maybe you were trying to spare me with silence, but that's the part that hurts: the silence: an open end.
How do you find closure when you have one perpetually open end?

I'm standing on rooftops trying to overlook where I went wrong, but you are at the top of every stairwell.
And I thought it was me that was pulling while you pushed, but now I'm not entirely sure it still is.
If not me- what was it you were running from, and better yet- what is it you want now?
It seems to be getting warmer outside, but then again- maybe he's right: I'm just emotionally feeble.