I have an empty cradle for Taika; she's in a pocket somewhere. I have a bag of random shit that the drug reps handed out at the conference - pens and papers and stress balls and kleenex and books and mugs and all the shit downstairs that means nothing at all to me. It's in a bag, in an empty front room of a house, on a street, in a city. Just-some-stuff.
And she says to me, she says maybe you've got to step back and just let the things he says roll off. And I says to her that I can't do that, because he owns part of my heart, and nothing he says will ever be simple to me.
I'm doing it because of you - not for you, because of you. Because I need to do it for myself, because this is part of the not-me that I don't want to become, but because I've never cared what happened to me I can't just do it for me.
I told you once before that the longer things stood, the closer my answer was to no. That hasn't changed. And gods, it's not because I don't want her. That hasn't changed, and I wonder if it ever will - or if that's just part of me that I'll have to live with, like the others whose names could and often do form a silent litany. You know yours is on it, always has been. Some of the others, they know too, and some of them they don't.
And I understand a whispered conversation, not so long ago, one that you weren't there for except in the dreampurple of memory, in the threads of my heart where you will always lie. And I understand the reasons, and the words.
Because it's something I've always wanted and never had, and because you always seem to be willing.
Is it worth the pain?
And that's the because of it, the for of it. Because I have never known my instincts to be wrong; and no matter what fantastic webs of ideation my idle mind may spin, my instinct, my soul tells me that it is not worth the certain pain to come. Il ne vaut pas. Il ne vaut absolument pas.
I get lost in the memoried echoes of a whispered querida sometimes, and I could cry for seeing only the shattered glimmers of what once bound me together and carried me through the darkest of my nights. And I don't think it's lost, and I don't know what's happened, and I know wings of night that would batter and battle again for your heart and your soul, shatter the shell of cynicism that binds you - but I do not know whose walls they would be fighting.
It has a sort of beat to it, the sound of thoughts working themselves around full-circle to arrive at questions again. And I wonder, what do you call the lines, and where are they drawn? Because me and my perspective, they are lost in the siren's call of smiles and sighs; we speak the language of endless miles of satin and summer, and we forget, we wonder, we do not understand or know, sometimes. And it seems to become, or bewilder, or beget the shadows all at once, without translation to or receipt of love.