She also throbbed from evacuating mornings. How would she look through a window? Would she remain indifferent to the same view of a neighboring building’s backside from behind the velvet-draped windows of a hundred hotels? My depicted conclusions of her eyes are unable to transcend bleakness. She is forever a ripe rose.
She longed for conversations—this is the only manner in which she is a girl. Her eyes are wide to pull in more of the world. Others misunderstood and used the nature of her grazing gaze to label her “Innocence.” I never believed: she is intimate with cognac and port. With mahogany walls. She is intimate with empty bottles.
Rain does not forgive. Rain is indifferent to what it wets. I lower The Wall Street Journal to peer at her. She is the wind. She is a hurricane seated in my kitchen, stealing my eggs. For, she forgot to say “Please.” I shall remind her of manners. She is wind, not rain. Presumably, I am rain.
She likes the word “translucent.” I prefer the word “transparent.” Once more, I am unable to fathom why I prefer to be an envelope versus the perfumed snapshot slipped in. Perhaps to be stamped: DO NOT FOLD. Perhaps.
--from SILENCES: The Autobiography of Loss (Blue Lion Books, 2007)