The Fair One Upon the Wall

I really am not sure as to how good this one is; it is something I simply wrote somewhat mindlessly. I felt compelled to do so. Photo credit to Katherine of Chicago's Flickr photostream.

When last you held me, I weighed one-hundred and fifteen pounds.

When I told you all I felt, I weighed one-hundred and eleven pounds.

Now, a year later and still the same 5'8" as I always stood, I weigh one-hundred and twenty pounds, down from a pleasant one-hundred thirty-three pounds. The weight continues to drop off, and I don't expect it to abate. My love, your forgotten one has replaced her appetite with longing. No food satisfies my stomach- I suppose it lays too close to my soul, which, though filled with God, still longs for you.

Funny, it is, how eveyrthing reminds me of you. The pants I wore during the days we were together fit only a bit more snugly than they did as I walked to meet you. The scant gifts you gave me are all gone, yet they return to my thoughts often. My room- which has only felt your presence but twice- pulses with the very idea that perhaps one day you will come again into it, under better terms, you and I. One object, especially, reminds me of you.

I purchased Hannibal on a hiatus from this neighborhood which holds both your and my home. His stare, full of malice, depth, and passion- enchanted me. He traveled alongside me during the hours returning home and he was put in a place of high accord in my bland room- looking down upon me as I drifted into sleep (full of who else but you, you!), glaring as I awoke. He acted according to the fashion that all posters act: never changing his expression, never shifting, never, ever speaking, and of course, never changing in to, say, the face of he who really drove me to purchase him in the first place!

However, some time after that, I recall, the most curious thing happened. A glance at his face in the night revealed that in place of the stringy, black hair matted against his stagnant face, there appeared to be locks of a much lighter color gracing his head. Sleep, as you surely have heard, does such things to one, and I dismissed the event for that time.

But the next day, as I lay to sleep, I peered at the poster again and found that something, I still cannot pinpoint just what it was at that point, was very different about the poster. Someone unaccustomed to glancing at your beautiful face would never have noticed any change (besides, of course, the aforementioned blonde hair), but I, so learned in the beauty of you, knew something was amiss. I was full of dread, wonder, and the slightest amount of hope ever felt to man, and with nothing else to do, I took down the picture, lest anyone else witness the transformation it was undergoing, and retired into my bed.

Each day, the picture morphed more and more. In only a week or so's time, the picture was no longer of Hannibal. You were the person restrained in his mask, and your blue eyes- strangely visible through the sepia-toned poster- shone through. A short period after that, you began to talk.

"Fool."

The first thing you said to me told me all I had already known. I, as you know, tore us apart ultimately.

"I know.." I bleakly whispered through the tears that fell and dotted your face.

You spoke to me quite  a bit more that first night, though I hardly could choke out a word. Your statements, I know, were full of mystery- beautiful and paralyzing.

The next few nights, I gained the ability to withold my tears, though still I spoke not a word. Your voice dripped with pain as you told me of the apathy I'd face when I again encountered you. You did not beg, you commanded- with no negative consequences besides the loss of you- for me to keep hoping, even when months- years!- spanned between when you and I departed from each other's company.

Only three days after your words, I turned over the picture and discovered it to be Hannibal. At first, I held the greatest confidence that what I had seen and heard was true. Now, a year after, I am not so certain.

After all, such things happen in dreams. What one wants, one will devise a dream in which they possess it. I pray, each day with a prayer more and more feeble, that it was true- that my effort, my thoughts, my words- will not go to waste.

Reviews

[Boris Jonathan Novak]

Very beautifully written. Your imagery and use of vivid emotions the reader can relate to make this a true pleasure to read.