The time between my last word and your unwritten one is a footprint that fills with mud. I am raising pigs for slaughter, and their affinity for mud affects my use of the image. I have new mud reverence, its sounds and cooling properties.
I would be a nun without you, and wish you would not exist. At my best I write selfishly, archeologist of private vocabulary. Gentle with my brush so as to not disturb the bones and porcelain as they lie.You are the repository. The outdoors— rain catchment system. I water my garden. A vine grows into the negative shape of unresponsiveness. I am that invasive species— the opportunistic rhizome with fervor to extremely cover ground. I am becoming unreadable. I don’t care if your attention is adequate.You are not necessary after all, not in this present incarnation as the penpal equivalent of a fuckboy.
This exchange has turned into a bit of a squash game— I make a vigorous gesture, my content bounces geometrically off a wall. I liked when you were the rock formation my river encountered, but now you are truly rocklike: my content pours across the floodplain of you. My implicit: splintering in the echo chamber of non-response. I’m not upset this time. I wish to be gentle— as I am not always— and also direct about my purpose. Do you mind? It does not matter if you do. I thought you were responsible for the loudness in me, but even without you I am a screamer. The answer about the tree in the forest is obviously that it does make a magnificent sound.