Scraps of A Mind

Letter: Home

To,

A hum resonates through the air, practicing its notes. While the orange string of lights brighten the deep blue walls.

She who stands among the hanging drapes has come from a painting herself. Soft doe eyes that soul-search, sword in hand. She stands with all the grace of a goddess and the hardened edge of experience.

There are books, sitting in their shelves. Not courageous enough to speak aloud the words claiming their insides. Settle instead for baring gold lettering on their spines like precious tattoos. Some volumes lean against others, some hold themselves; they are the takers of empty spaces, the books.

My smile is small when she turns to me, a hardcover copy of Sherlock Holmes in her grasp. She wears hints of a mad-woman in her expression. Waiting like a wolf in sheep's clothing, if you'll excuse the saying.

White waxy stalks grow from glass bottles, varying in height, golden flames flickering at each tip. I stare unveiled as she sits across from me, adding her Sherlock Holmes to the growing stack on the floor. Her hands fold across the wood, a tentative smile crossing her lips.

I wish I were as delicate as her. Angel-kissed cheeks colored by the finest painter, a stride that holds as much strength as the great stallions of old. She speaks to me, echoes of past loves putting flavor to her voice. Makes me wonder, rough, frayed me, what magic she stole to mend my bleeding heart.

All my warmth I wish to give her, to bathe her in whatever safety I still possess. Spin her not drapes of silk to wear proudly, but to pass on something tattered and used. Something she can love infinitely, something worthy of her. Tell me, what must I do to remain worthy of her?

Sincerely, The Man Who Found Companionship.