“Lyrical,” one guy more than 15 years my senior once said. “You’re so lyrical.”

I wrote long essays about nothing—they appeared insightful and deep. And yet when conversing with me, I would spout off shallow insecurities and naive anxieties.

I remember when there were once admirers standing in front of my metaphorical doorstep. I wrote about the sunshine providing the light in the darkness, the curiosity I had in the grocery store line, and the love…that was so superbly naive.

What if all of them were just self-indulgent as the latest article states?

Did those essays ever explicitly become who I am?

I once said that my standard for the significant other required that he speak more than me. And he does. But oddly enough, with that, he’s not interested in reading my lyrical words—he would rather hear me say them.