Letters

by Somethinger

Talk.
It needn’t make sense to me. I needn’t agree. It needn’t be the same language. It needn’t be the same place.
But talk.
Tell me about your world.
Your dreams, your plans.
All of those that fell in place, fell apart, or simply fell from your eyes.
Draw those faces with words.
The noses, the scars.
The curve of the lips and the furrowed brow.
Draw those fingers on my hand.
Tell me about your expectations of me.
Why I fail, how I fail.
I will not comply.
Or I even might.
Tell me till we complete each others’ words. And we plan each others’ days. That we fight, grow tired of each other and stop talking, but when the smallest word you used repeats itself in my head or the silliest thing I observed occurs in front of you, we write again.
To each other. Telling you and telling me how this is impossible, unreasonable and how no words can match a real, physical presence of you.
Lie through your teeth.
Deny through your being and when you do, fall exhausted.
One day I’ll stop, and you’ll be too busy. We promise ourselves that this can happen again, but the slightest bits of lethargy and work that cannot be avoided but actually doesn’t matter will stand in the way of the words that we built around us. And the day will grow into two days and you will forget what you wanted to talk about. Then you may forget that you wanted to talk at all- and some day you will forget me. And a year after that, I will decide to forget you too.
But tell me. Tell me what’s in that mind of yours so I can draw a picture of you. So that I can imagine your face in the clouds and so that when there’s no blanket of arms around me, I can draw your arms and sleep warm.

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