On My Chair

I sat at my desk, sharpening the pencil on the white page – that’s what you do when drawing ideas drowning them into you, waiting to consume the stones, in your mind in your kidneys, in your past, over the pages. When the story gets off, it spreads over pencil powder and the caresses with which, delicately, hastily, one covers the notebook with notes. I was doing this slow not doing, trapped in my own words, when she came next to my chair, grabbed it and turned my face face-to-face with hers. She asked me for a word, complaining I had drowned too many of those in my sorrow and not let one fly. I held my lips tight and pouted with scorn. She became even sweeter and told me to tell her but just a word: “I saw a word in your mouth!” – and smiled at me. I resisted a bit longer, then I opened my mouth breathing out and locked it again. I meant: it’s gone. She rebuked: “If a word had escaped it would have made a sound. Love, it’s still there.”