You showed me a fish in a garden, a statue chiseled from stone, frozen in time, unable to swim a hundred yards to the ocean. You see its lack of agency, its helplessness. I see beauty in its resolve, its contentment.

 

I find trust to be so abhorrent, intangible. I say it is for those who don’t know any better. You ask if I could ever trust you. I don’t answer.

 

You march in protest, shaking your fist in the air. I sit by the fire, stoking the embers of passion with my pen and paper, writing my way into the void.

 

I say I hate mysteries. You are the unknown. I say I love you, really I do. You don’t believe me.

 

I open the window, trembling, invite you in. You walk right in, fearless and strong, making demands unapologetically. The chasm stretches deep and wide between us.

 

I approach you tentatively from a distance, like when I stand before sunflowers splashed across an oil canvas. You admire me up close, like the men who watch the Degas ballerinas with hunger in their eyes.

 

You have an insatiable appetite, always wanting more. I am satisfied with so little, my cup overflows.

 

I am the ballerina always on my toes, graceful arms arching up, ivory feet wrapped in ribbons, a heart wrapped in chains. You move in close for a better view.

 

You tell me about the statue in the fountain glittering among the coins, drenched in wishes for a heart of flesh that beats. I show you the sky in all its glory, the world outside my window.

 

I am the statue, the fish submerged in quiet wonder. You are the fountain, always in motion.

 

You say come and dance, join the party. I say I am dancing, can’t you see? I show you the door, closing it behind you, exhausted from our exchange. I look out the window and I wave, but you don’t look back.

 

I put my pen on the paper, and I write a thousand goodbyes in languages you will never comprehend.