When you sat in silence, I was tempted to fill the space with words, or at least thoughts. Instead I tried to stay. Still. To fill my mind only with the present. Your face, frozen, veiled behind auburn hair, was squeezed by pain's fist. The words that trickled from your lips dropped, one by one. They soaked into the silence and left it as dry as it had been. And yet they made thoughts sprout in the soil of my spirit, and so I spoke, hesitatingly. Word by word. The room was small, but we were so far apart. The words should have echoed as in a great cavern. The walls were white, the decorations bright, but when I shut my eyes, we were in the dark, in the cold, shut away from the sun.
Is this where you live? I could never stay here.
"I don't want to be here," you said.
"Where do you want to be?" I was sitting on the floor, looking up at you. Your feet, in clean sneakers, dangled at my eye level.
All you said was: "Not here."