I write, because I cannot read. I am blind. I do not speak, because you are deaf. You read my words and say them aloud, as if they were your own. But, the emotions you convey are of the wrong sort. You’ve let the cold water run for too long. The apostrophe marks just float there, little icebergs in the frigid water. I’ll doodle a sun on the page, a desperate attempt to recreate the warmth. The thought of you hangs over my head like a cloud, following me wherever I go. My words reign over you, but it is a sentence that you have misunderstood. I shan’t rewrite it. No. I shall tear off the bottom of the page, the part where your life hangs in the balance. I will tear it off, like a limb that I have lost in war.
