I try to imagine, but I'm limited by my own vocabulary.
Are you someone I'd really want to know, or just a figment of my own needs?
Have we created one another from something lacking in ourselves?
There is often a warped reality here.
Stymied within the walls we move.
I see us as mimes, acting out the emotions of our lives.
Bracing our hands against an invisible box, clawing our way out.
All the while imagining what freedom would feel like.
Often the grease paint is slightly smudged, our faces stark white.
Black diamonds adorn our cheeks and our lips are bright red.
We move through our days, our lives ... a stage.
I wonder who you are, in the silence of your words.
As your hands tell stories ... I cannot hear.
