I might not have many friends, not the breathing, benign sort at any rate. And I don’t mean that in a sad, miserable sort of way: I just cannot accumulate the kind that bore me in a minute, I don’t enjoy the crowds either. I am good with words, but not the spoken kind. The best relationships I’ve had are on paper, and that’s what I do best. I wish I could conduct love affairs like that, affairs that contained within the binds of paper and screen…glorious pages of ink and type. Stories that unfold the same way but never lose their joy, imageries that take me by the hand and lead me into worlds of passion, terror and delight. These words are worthy and reliable companions – some write back and some I simply delight in writing to, I find pauses in locked eyes, exclamation at the taste of their lips, tongue swirling in a comma, my hands exploring pages after pages, clauses scouring their skin, parenthesis that relish the mysteries of flesh that tear and mend, a dash that stops at parted lips- yet sadly, you see, none of these allow the delight to hold a moment longer when grammar fails you with a period.
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