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I enter the silence of the room, a silence that vibrates in my ears. It almost sounds like it's spelling out your name, letter by letter, floating past the middle of it, stroking the a. That's the tone that inclines the change of your name, the tone I can either pressure or soften, sharpen or smooth out. I have the inkling of a feeling that indicates that I might one day be able to do that. Maybe then, once your letters are smoothened into a slab of rock, will I not fade in front of you? Will I not fall, crumble like so many times before? Only this once, touch your name with my hand, hold your name to my heart, in silence. Where there will be no words spoken and no bodily movements, no feet walking away. And won't they say; should it not fill me with dread? Should it not be horrible, empty and silent? I shall say nothing. There at the stone, with my feet, having walked forth and back before your scrutinizing eyes, your penetrating, perverse stare, standing still. For a glimpse of a moment caught there between us, moving as fast and slow as you do. Giving me room to pass you;

don't touch my hand. Slipping through your bejewelled fingers, falling behind your ashen coal hair, your twisting black powder hair, smelling it just after you've washed it. Remembering your words, the things you've said, like your name, stroking my skin. Smoothing my heart, sharpening the edges, softening my memories and taking away all the pressure.

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