Poetic Conversations

"So, I had a dream last night." She says to me, staring off into space. "I was being chased by someone very big and I got the distinct impression he wanted to rape me."

Glancing up to her from filing my nails, I twitch my eyebrow; "Did he succeed?"

"No," she replies calmly, "I got out through a window. No one would help me after that, though."

"Well, that hardly surprises me."

"Why is that?"

"You know, they tell young girls that if they are being attacked, to scream 'fire' instead of 'rape' because people are more likely to act if they think their lives are being threatened as well."

"That's kind of sad."

"Pathetic, really." I blow the nail-dust off my hands and pick at the hanging pieces, continuing to file the corners. She falls silent across from me and I can tell she is pondering something deep. I wait patiently, letting her collect her thoughts; she has been oddly disconnected the past few days, I could not help but notice.

"How do you feel about love?" She finally spits out, to which, I laugh heartily.

"Do you really think I am the best person to ask about that?"

"Why wouldn't you be? You've had enough experience with men."

"Experience with men, yes. As for love.... I am not sure I am someone who can so easily succeed. Take for example, the fact I just failed miserably at something I thought was going pretty damn well."

"Yet, you don't dwell the way so many would." she adds, taking me off guard.

She was right. I would give her that. And it was her point - that I haven't mourned the way I should - that has made me question if I ever truly loved him with all the meaning of the word. I can feel her eyes on me while I try to think of a response, and suddenly, I didn't care to be so obvious.

Taking in a deep breath, I reply with; "A woman who dwells, looses her independence - a man who can not let go, forfeits his identity."

"Hm. While in both, self esteem is diminished."

"Well said."

"Thank-you..."

Silence again, until the phone rings and I let her answer it; I am not really in the mood to put on a happy voice. Few seconds of mumbling goes by, incoherent pleasantries of 'how are you' - 'is she home right now?' - 'sorry to leave you disappointed'. I always hated the phone, and despise it even more when it rings from a number that flutters my stomach. Luckily, that was not the case now.

"For mom," she states after hanging up. "Do you even want to be in love?" She suddenly asks.

I curse inside my head; I was really hoping she had moved on from that topic.

"Of course I do...." I put the nail file down with a snap against the computer table and look up at her; "My mind requires sustenance of demiurgic possibilities and innovative nights of endless wonder to generate creative ventures - My body yearns for passion, more than touch but of enigmatic understanding and true desire to gratify - My soul... my soul, weary and elderly, wants nothing more then to be bound in content delirium for this final trial."

After a few seconds of taking in what I had said, she comes back with; "Isn't that asking a bit much from the male gender?"

"I have yet to explain what I would give in return," I coyly reply wearing a smile.

"Weak muscles and subdued desires?" she attempts.

"Fuck off...." I pick the nail file back up and start work on the other hand. "I would nurture wounds, tenderly develop ambition, feed imagination, instill contentedness for everything he is, build pillars of loyalty to retreat behind whenever he feels necessary and yes, 'subdue desires'."

"If that is how you feel about love; what about hate?"

I can not help but smile here. Sadly enough, an emotion I am much more familiar with.

"As Mr. Darcy has been quoted of saying; 'My good opinion once lost, is lost forever'." I wink at her.

"Truly?"

"Indeed. I am not someone you can shame twice."

"But... what if it was done as a mistake?"

"I have very little tolerance for people who can not think out their actions and words before expressing them."

"I see."

"Hate is a very strong word. The price for vengeance is a hefty one." I ponder on this for a moment. "While for a time, a person can be a slave to love, they can forever be buried in the coffin of hate. Hate blinds and contorts, construes and out-right controls ones ability to decipher truth from fiction. Reality is cleaved by hate, yet only blurred by love."

"Yet, you hate over love?"

"Would not be that way, if it were my choice. My hate is fueled by being wronged; betrayed and spat on, kicked when down."

"Does that make it better?"

"Not at all... constructions of despised memories whisper, lacerate and bruise a mind which tries to only forgive."

"So... why don't you?"

"Perhaps, at this point the hate has allowed me to believe she does not deserve to be forgiven. Still, I do not seek revenge. At least, I can say that."

"Do you think it is necessary?

"What? Hate?"

She nods

"Necessary... no. Unavoidable.... yes. I feel as though love, is the exact opposite." I laugh at myself. "Why do you ask me such things?"

"You've been detached recently; I am trying to figure out why."

"Funny, I thought that about you. And perhaps, I am simply being taken off guard."

"By whom?"

"Never-mind that.... what you should be asking, is how."

"O.K... how?"

"I wish I could understand it."

"You're a bitch."

"I know."

We fall silent again, the only sounds separating us were that of scraping nails against ridged cardboard. I am going back through the things I said and finding no better words to put my thoughts in. I hate to admit it, but she has awoken something inside of me I have tried very hard to hide. The simple fact that I have doubted myself capable of loving the way I have witnessed others do, and concluded (long ago) that I am destined to be a shoulder to cry on for others when their love fails. That I shouldn't ever know what the depth of love is like, or god forbid, I would suddenly understand the pain and fail to heal. Knowledge can be just as hindering as ignorance. Perhaps the fact I am inspired more by lust than heartbreak... is a gift rather than curse.

I find myself staring out the window, to the starless city sky and feel sad. Simply sad. No poetic adjective to make me sound more verbally gifted as a writer. Just sad. The moon is out and although it gives me an odd nostalgic feeling, I also have an urge to bask in it. I look back to her and I am surprised to find she is smiling.

"Go on." She says, reading my mind.

"I need a moon dance." I explain, though I know I didn't have too.

I get up and turn the light out; walking out of my room with thoughts in mind of a wild park, I feel content. I am done talking with the mirror for tonight.