Appropriation: in sips of swiftest beak, the fish asleep, the careless deep too tired to weep. She takes in little whiffs of pieces of memories contained in china, the bubbles beneath reflecting the waves; resonant, merry; hollow, empty. One by one they grew thorns that lodged on her throat, the back-channelling cavern grate sating her moat, grout in the linings of her pulpy core, mouth asana’d into vomiting. The corners of her lip twitched and curled toward the sun like some wicked feng-shui, her tongue taking paths of least resistance. I wonder, this girl of unknown aches, living alone in shuffled states smiled in stillness, in reserved rate while talking late on the phone. She types, she waits. She closes her eyes, debating whether to let others’ intellect devour her walls, that her body may rest.
Insinuation: I dreamt about her as soon as I was allowed nightmares in the nightmarish hours of sleep. I say dream because she is. She is a dream. She is a dream amidst the nightmare, like a bubble reflecting rainbows in a wasteland where the only light source are luminescent reactions from chemical whatnot. I asked her questions. She answered them. She never asked me questions. I was the only one curious. But over the course of my shameless digging I found out about her age. I found her wants and whims — only a little bit. As little as she would allow. I found out how she dreamt of journeys and parks and caves and flying and beaches and streams; anything, really, to break her windowless room’s claustrophobic seams.
Situation: Even the most graceful of swans need deep water to hide their awkward feet. I took cover as her words rained like sleet, emotionless pieces of petrichor hitting the dead emptiness that is my street. Even the most graceful of swans need sleep. Even the most graceful of swans weep. Sometimes I feel like I am too shallow or selfish to contain the almost outpouring of emotions — and she can sense it. She hesitates, and decides not to spill, after all. Perhaps I presented myself too shallow a glass, and for all the facades that say she does not care, she did care a bit. And that’s saying something. Little hints of twitch, of tiny vibrations on the string, of gale in the perceived airless echo chamber — this is the essence of feeling. Like notes on a glockenspiel, she wrote melodies monophonic; one must collect them and feed them in the delay and recourse and round and round and round and round and round and you get this beautiful cacophony, chaotic and tasteful; rich.
Speculation: Perhaps I presented myself too much of a person when she did not need one. I have been talking to ten one hundred diaries, the weights of which cannot even equal what discourse the millions of words could present when I wished for it. Perhaps I am not ready, but perhaps I have been using the word “I” too much here. Listen, listen, listen. This is not about you. This is about the careless deep too tired too weep. It is about the tongue in this particular path of least resistance, the subtly calloused smile in uncomfortable asana. I (there it goes again) have been content having dots for eyes. I dot my I’s. Cross my T’s. Perhaps she did not need me to; perhaps she disliked rules. Perhaps she learned long ago that rules never really help. I also use the word “perhaps” too much here, indicating my uncertainty.
Conclusion: Keep in mind that when you wish for someone to open up, make sure that you are ready for the rain. Make sure you can contain the outpour. Make sure that you are a ready vessel. It will rain. It will pour. It will rain like hell and it will pour like it had never poured before, and you should make damn sure that you never wish that you never wished for rain because you will destroy yourself in this storm, in this hurricane you asked for. Worst of all, you will leave her empty — without even the slightest connection or empathy with someone to show for it. In the outpouring spring you must both be drenched, bathed in this belonging, and tell her that yes… you *feel.* You feel again. If you’re going to ask for rain and run away to leave her halfway, then you might as well kill her.
Conversations: I have been talking to somebody’s ten one hundred diaries. I have only been getting canned responses, like a harmless horcrux I pursued in some random avenue. I know what I wanted, and I am a ready vessel.