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the end where i begin

we keep ending it with a comma, as if we were merely catching breath, as if we have been speaking too much in the last two and a half years and we just needed a break, we did, i now understand, we really did; you did, you thought you did; but what i never realized was i did too, because i kept talking and talking and talking, as if merely rambling out words were enough to justify a conversation; but we both knew what it was, wasn't it? it was no longer just about my day because you asked, it was about your day because i didn't ask and we had nothing else to talk about, so you put a period on it finally, just to end the conversation, and i didn't like the silence, because it drove me crazy, it brought me to the point where i couldn't wash my own dishes, and i refused to sleep on my own bed, and i stopped wearing the pink jacket you gave me, i stopped being me for a while, and it wasn't beautiful at all; but there is an exquisite kind of pain, the kind that makes your eyes sparkle over the joy one finds in little things, the kind that makes one grateful for oreos and donuts and people saying one has nice legs - things that no longer come from you because you put a period on us, and we stopped talking - and i found comfort in that silence, but i refused to accept it, i pushed it all away, because you made a sound again, the sound of a phone ringing in the middle of a night, unanswered with a hello at first, but eventually welcomed with much relief, like a lost pen being found, and we tried to hold on to the sound of our cries and laughs and moving hands, as if trying to make up for the silence of the last four months, as if trying to deny feelings of loss or betrayal or pain, as if pretending knowing about the pill didn't hurt, things that kept looking us back in the eye when we tried brushing them off - so we put a comma, we put a comma because we never want it to end, because it sounds right, but there are other sentences to be written, other stories to be told, and commas only clutter things, like this, because can anything ever make sense in run-ons?