I'm partnered with whispers. Disquieting their partner, they whisk her voice unasked through my dial-bound trips. Daily they gaily needle me with their tip to need her voice nonetheless. Nightly I feed them less and less detail, but they grow and they mock the endless hem- hawed denials, I've tripped again.
"Check this box. You know, the four-squared lines around the hollow of our white space. Yes, there's no phrase next to the unchecked box. It doesn't matter. We're only here to gather a positive response. We'll fill in the rest later, and we'll attest we could see through your glassy hush, as we saw through the stone trying not to dwell on those bits of crushed shells.”
The shells. Those ****** bits of shells she left minutes before she left. Shells already discarded by some small medley of slimy unnamed things somehow both alive and living out in the dead-calm lake. Those shells lost or more likely tossed aside but lightly, as delicate dishes are gently pushed when finished.
"We've heard you tell it. The green-brown waves rolled to deposit them on that spit of coarse, cold sand where your toes slipped from shoes and care to taste the ridges of their gently sloped backs and smooth-worn edges. She took them home then and using nail polish she painted them shocking pink faces and round eyes in various hues of red. Glitter-glued to blue construction paper they bubbled her winking verbs, which troubled you as you re-read them and deconstructed her intentions each color- less visit to the refrigerator door."
I've told it and much the same, but when I hear it their words become less mine than hers.