when walls talk

There are no particles for the filter to collect, because the grains never had a chance to develop. Today there are no pigments to sieve from the figure a black line has outlined on paper, no splashes of color to separate the image from all the others in the coloring book. The image had been delineated by pencil, perfected for so long that by now everyone else’s contains color.

She thinks it might have been your fault.

That perhaps it was all those years of protection that let nothing catalytic seep through. The solution just settled.

Motionless.

That is her.

If you wish to find her, she’ll be out finding colors.

The mind tightened or mistakenly loosened the screws of thought. What she thought, who she was, what she wasn’t, were reassured and disassembled time and time again in her thoughts. It was her mind that heard the complaints, helped her self diagnose and piece the fabricated fragments together in efforts to regain full function.

She knew it was against the rules to ignore but enough of it had been done to make her disregard no different.

Or so I heard.

Today she discovered the scar, the eraser markings on the outline you both had so carefully developed, and realized the entire image lacked color. And she told herself that with time and time away she will discover, the same way she found gifts in her room or because you found it distasteful handing her things.

Truth is, I wont find those hues so easily, I’ve never truly seen them before.

But if I do, I shall roll around and see which ones stick and form a pattern that’s absorbed beyond the surface.

Something real.

Something filterable and with color to shine.

She told me to tell you.

Round

s** is a ball, curled.

drops falling keep rolling on

the circuitous edge.