This is not my best. But you've never seen my best, anyway.

     Lately, I've been watching a lot of films. Films about magic. Films about stolen things. Characters with accents and teeth that are too perfect for the lives they're portraying. I've been watching films to forget about the scenes that run through my mind on rainy Sundays, and let's face it, every day since the leaves changed color. It's your film and I've always just been watching.

     I've been sitting with my cold hands in my lap. I've kept my eyes wide open through montages of parties, dark bars, freeways, sex, old girlfriends, old friends with families you thought you wanted. Montages of your best days in vivid colors scattered between nights of illness, no sleep, and self medication. I don't cry when you're giving speeches about your past, your parents, weddings, and houses you have or will live in. I keep my eyes open while you tell stories of jackets left behind. I want to close them when I know I've missed a scene, when I watch your tongue wrap around only the parts you want me to know. I keep a straight face. I choke in private. I sit here watching, for too long, hoping maybe I'll understand when it's all over. Hoping the lights will never turn on. Hoping I never have to leave.

     I've tried to tear my eyes away from the screen more times than you'll ever know. I never wanted to be your audience. I don't want to be any one's audience. But you've got me. I paid for my ticket with more money than I had in the bank. I don't think the price means anything to you. 

     But it's all a veil. It's all a metaphor because if I had your worn face in front of mine you wouldn't know what to do with me. Because I said what I meant. Because I'm too much. Because this isn't what you're used to. Because I cared too much. I don't think you gave me a chance to speak in more than a whisper. And I'm certain I won't get that. A chance, a song, a painting, a book, a poem, a reason, a conversation, a fucking honorable mention in the margins of your journal. 

     I get a ticket to a show. A seat in the middle of rows of empty chairs once occupied by people I'll never know, and will never know about. But they left. They aren't watching anymore. They walked out. They walked away. And I can't figure out how you notice that they're gone if my seat goes unnoticed. Or why it doesn't make you feel any different in the morning. Because in all honesty I'm jealous. I want to watch only what makes me smile today, or tonight, and not give a shit about tomorrow. I want to walk out of films that have just begun, or might end badly. I want to leave before something makes me cry, or remember what feeling felt like. 

     But I am right here. Sitting in a chair no one's looking for. Thinking about heading for the door, turning on the lights, and being honest. Because honestly, I'd never walk away. And if I'm honest with myself, it's not my face, my smell, my smile, or even my fucking personality I want you to notice. 

     I just want you to know that someone stayed.