Some days, when I am feeling grim and grimmer, I speak to you. And I expect you think you are your very own person with your very own life and reactions to me and everything around you. But you're not. Not here. Because on days like this one, I have turned you into a little, black stove. And I will tell you what I can't tell anyone else. And I know- I just know- there is no one there to hear me say it. So it won't matter. It won't matter to anybody but me. There's no one on the other side listening in.
I am as sure of that as she was.
And it won't matter how high I put that picture. How I tore it. How I pinned it. How I memorize it. Or how the boards are rearranged. Or what I start. Or what I stop. My efforts aren't lacking. They're useless. There is just so little use for them. So little use for me.
Everybody wants what they don't have. The bird on her shoulder reminds me of this. All the heat of the sun is what he wears. Everything else reminds me of that. (As if I could forget.)
I kneel like this over destiny. Stretch out one arm. Look down with one heart. There is no answer for my faith. No answer for desire. Nothing is returned.
What have I done?
Little, black stove, I can tell you that tearing and pinning and hoping do not fix this. I don't think I can stand to be alive for all of ever after.