Those Words

Those words, they weigh a ton.
Hauling them up from the depths of my being, hoisting them up unto the tip of my tongue, feels like a feat that even Hercules would have baulked at.
It's far easier to not say them; to leave them exactly where they are.
Yet a part of me¦ a part of me wonders why those words come so difficult to me now, when they once passed so freely from my mouth, galloping out without a care in the world, hardly weighing anything at all. A little too freely, perhaps: so effortless, could they have ever been sincere? But all of that is in the past. Tonight, as she lies beside me and I will her to simply fall asleep, I claw and heave at those words, yanking at them to no avail.
I love you.
There.
Easy enough just to think them. The words run freely through my mind, across the darkness that lurks there. They run like young lovers through a cornfield, naught but gravity keeping them grounded.
But making them solid¦ saying them out loud¦ it's another matter entirely.
Do I love you?
Ah, it's far too late in the evening to be asking questions like that! I'm tired, tired beyond words¦
She's awake, still: I can tell by her breathing. What's she waiting for? She's waiting for me to say those damn words, of course! And as time ticks on, as the silence grows and deepens and widens, those words become heavier still. The silence stretches on. You could cut the air expectation with a knife¦
(or her throat? That'd solve it¦ or mine)
I feel claustrophobic. Closed in. The duvet suddenly feels as heavy and unyielding as¦ well, as those words. I kick it down to my ankles¦ no use.
Leave me alone!
I feel like crying. I want to go home. I'm seven years old again, standing in the playground of my primary school, demanding to see my mother.
I pray for a welcome diversion. An earthquake, some other natural disaster¦
I pray for a burglar.
Or for a UFO to appear outside the bedroom window: for the aliens to abduct me and then drop me off on the other side of the world, a million miles away from here in a place where those damn words will stop tormenting me¦ I don't care what they do; they can give me an anal-probe if they so please! An anal-probe would be preferable to this silence.
What time is it?
12:45¦
46¦
It's been fifteen minutes. She's been waiting for me to tell her that I love her for the last fifteen minutes.
Sheesh, talk about being desperate. Whatever happened to playing hard to get? The thrill of the chase? Hell, the thrill of anything?
47¦
Sixteen minutes.
Just say the damn words!
48¦
If only I could have a heart attack about now. Or a brain aneurysm. Something quick, painless. Or a note from my doctor, excusing me from having to say those words. A note from my mother. I shouldn't have to say those words: they're bad for my health. Look how much I'm sweating, for God's sake! Feel how rapid my heartbeat is!
49¦
This is getting ridiculous.
I don't love you anymore, I'm afraid. I don't know if I ever did. Both of us know perfectly well that this isn't working, that it never will. I'll leave in the morning. I don't want us to argue; I don't want us to end up hating each other. You know as well as I do that this is for the best. So let go, Louise¦ I want to be alone. I want to be free. I want to live in a bed-sit someplace with only my typewriter and drink for company. I want to¦
"I love you, I say, the words tumbling out into the silent dark.
But she doesn't reply.
I can tell by her breathing that she's fast asleep.