Can you hear my mind through the silence in-between the songs? Can you hear the poems in the back of my head, or the love my synapses sing whenever I turn to look at you? Do my fingers speak of how they would stroke your hair and glide along your cheekbone? Do my eyes project onto yours the same images I see? Images of us on our backs, holding hands, looking out for falling stars.
Do my lips speak of the happiness they find on yours?
There is a wildfire burning inside of me, engulfing every fiber of my being in its relentless flames. I have welcomed it, helped it spread, and am unwilling to attempt to put it out. Why would I?
It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in I don’t remember how long.
– I think it’s been years since I’ve been as happy as I am right now, in this moment, lying here with you. If I could, I’d lay here forever. Would you?
– I have to pee…
There’s a bookshelf inside of me, kept empty for books that only you could write before you gave up writing for me.
I have this little egg that I take with me wherever I go; it’s pretty and shiny and I take good care of it. I’ve grown quite fond of it and I like looking after it, it gives me purpose. Today, though, while wiping it clean, I noticed a little crack in its shell.
I felt my heart begin to shatter.
I sit here in this waiting room, my own personal hell, this dark, small, waiting room; I sit here alone, waiting, hoping the operation will be a success. Days turn into weeks and I have yet to make contact with anyone or anything. I just sit here. Waiting. Shaking. Scared. All the time. In this loveless waiting room.
I yearn for my time here to come to an end almost as much as I fear it. Will I have a life outside the waiting room, in the real world, or will I be taken to another room? All I can do is wait for you to come through that door and tell me how it went.
“Give it to me straight. Am I going to live?”
Calvin the Hippo
I am not like other hippos. Many would not know it, but it’s true. The main problem with being me is that I have to look for happiness in other hippos. I have none of my own, so I can only feed off of someone else’s, someone who is willing to share theirs, someone who cares. Things would be easier if I wasn’t such a picky hippo. I don’t accept just anyone’s happiness; I have to make sure I like their happiness. I have to make sure it suits me. It generally does not.
I am not like other hippos.