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We're sitting face to face. In this bare room, there's nothing but the chairs that support us and a square, wooden table. The rest is mingle, the rest is needless.
Both reluctant to talking, both reluctant to ask for forgiveness. But one of us is safe, cleant from all stains of guilt.
Somebody has given you the wrong advice, I'm afraid. I know someone has said the wrong words.
And I start to grow roots. I can feel how they pierce my shoes and start to crack the wooden, frail floor.
I start to feel this rush of sensibility across my entire body. I'm suffering, while attaching to something. To this floor built by us. But you seem careless, plainly careless.
Now the tears start to get molten with blood dripping from my hands. There are branches growing from my arms.
And you stand by, entertained, as if expecting the show to grow morbid and disturbing.
I'm tired. I start to rip the branches off my arms. You seem oblivious, lost again.
The next day, sun is glowing across the window, like a limelight, bathing my body in light. I can't see you, and I can't see anything but light. But I can feel your pressence.
Somehow, you lay there quiet observing, who knows if preparing a preemptive attack or just enjoying the fact that I'm drowning in my loneliness.
And this moment, this very moment, seems endless and conceiving to a bad ending I'm afraid.
I can't move. I need help.