Knotting the Ends

“It’s supposed to mean something.”

I murmured to her figure. Hovering over my shoulder. My eyes look away. The window needs cleaning. And the sun rise filters through. Unclean and unblemished. It can’t quite reach me. But that’s okay. It’ll get stronger. I know it.

Heavy arms drape over mine. Like soft curtains. It disturbs the dust from my shirt. And I sigh tiredly. I am too old for this. Too young for this. Too anything for this. But there is no stopping her. Not with her ragged breathes against my cheek. Not with her eyes upon my words.

I frown. They lay so uselessly in my hands. I can barely hold on to them. Yet I made them myself. Formed them so carefully and so tirelessly. All I wanted was to feel them. To taste them. But they are so heavy. So fragile. That I can’t even lift them to my lips. Like liquid they run through my fingers. And into hers.

“It’s supposed to mean something…”

I whisper again. My voice softer. Breaking. I tear my eyes away from my shaking hands. As she lifts the words from me. They are surer in her touch. In her presence. They trust her. Even as she tips her palms. And lets them run through the dirtied window sill. And from liquid they turn into powder. And blend with the dust of all my words. All the things I made.

The sun blazes higher now. Swimming through the filth. She looks at me. Her eyes shadowed. And the light forms around her. Holding her as she held my words. I reach out to her. Hoping that I can touch her. Feel her. Then maybe. Just maybe. She might be real. And I won’t be left alone. In this blinding room. Watching my words drift through the air. Their meanings may or may not existing.

“It’s supposed to mean something……”

It is a plea now. I just want an answer. Even if I am not asking a question. I mutter over and over again. As if my voice could somehow turn into words. Even though it has never happened before. I just want her to speak back to me. I don’t care what she says. Just so I can pretend that I am not alone.

Her arms reach out. Blinding. Her shadowed eyes are lit up. As the sun slowly consumes her. I can’t see her. It burns too much. But I mutter and gibber and whisper. And I stare at my empty hands. Willing the words to fill them. Willing myself to fill them. If I knew how to cry. I would. But no one taught me.

And a word blooms in my palm

“…It’s s-supposed…t-to… m-mean-n s-something-ing...”

But it doesn’t. And she is gone now. For the room is filled with light. I can barely breathe. And the words settle on my shoulders. And I imagine they are her hands. Heavy. Cool. And it almost comforts me.

Another word sprouts on my finger tip.

Accompanied by another. And another. And my mind is lost in them. Trying to read what their value is. And all the dust around me becomes heavier and heavier. The light is leaving. For even light has to rest. For all it does to me. It makes me even lonelier. And I will the words of dust around me.

A scattering of words stretches across my wrist.

And as the dust clouds my sleeves. I see her hands there. And the dust at my neck is her cool breathes. And she is there again. Hanging over me. Made out of the words gathering in my hands. And I smile. My eyes lowering.

“It’s supposed to mean something.”