whispers
Easter. 2:43am. Nearly two thousand years after the fact.
The black ring revolves around my ring finger with the help of my subservient hand. It is a darkness without depth, only in guise.
The cut at the base of my left thumb, slightly pink, a mere paper cut that whispers mortality.
This black jacket, with black buttons painted white, but frayed enough to expose its true colors.
I but have to wonder at the emptiness. Why communication, waves of the spirit resonating through space and time and my garbled white (if not black) noise reaching no higher than a giant flea-like leap, why communication as something so grand and so incomprehensible, could be so difficult.
I feel cheated. I feel cheated. Because even this I already know is somehow going to lead me back to communicating with you and knowing you better than we’ve ever had before. I’d learn to hear, I’d learn to speak, and this is only going to get better. But right now, I feel cheated.
I’ve forgotten what this all about and what this all is meant for. Communicating love.
I want to go back to the old letters, I want to have right now the communication, to the love we once had, I want it to be what it was before, and just jump to it. Don’t want to start off at step one. Don’t want to start all over again. But that’s why it worked then. It’s a built relationship, it’s a process.
So I close my eyes and I listen. And I let the whispers seep from my soul.
