Come on. It'll come any time now, I think, slouched in my chair, at my desk.
Subtly eyeing the empty page before me with a little guilt. Oh, I know exactly what I could write on it, I have a really great idea. I just don't have anything to write it with.
So I wait. Gaze wandering around my room slowly and aimlessly. Now it rests upon my lamp, its warm yellow abyss burning into my vision, casting the rest of the room into further darkness.
Passing the time and the boredom, I softly kick my feet against the bin under my desk over and over. Like the rhythm of a leaky faucet.
And suddenly, my attention's drawn, as I hear the sound of flapping, and spot the silhouette coming in through my window, onto the sill.
That pigeon, again. It comes by here every so often.
Its face is blurry, and smudged. I can't stand to look at it. I've tried to sharpen it before, but it always flies away too fast. So I don't even bother.
And I'm thankful for its visits; in its beak, it holds a gift for me. A figure of something, thin and long, wrapped delicately in Christmas paper.
In a curt gesture, it places the gift onto my desk, and flies away into the night sky.
I smile softly to myself, and unwrap the long thing, excited to see who it is that I have received. And I'm not disappointed.
A girl in casual clothing; skinny light-blue jeans and an oversized gray shirt. Her moth-brown hair long, reaching to the middle of her back, and billowing around her shoulders.
Her jaw is soft and rounded, but her features are sharp. Her mouth and nose and eyes and cheeks are sharp and full of life. Actually quite pretty.
And she is tall. And so, so ready to be used.
Gripping her between my thumb, index, and middle fingers, her feet pointing up in the air, and stabilizing the paper with my other hand, I put her face onto the page and begin writing.
| "Oh, hey! Fancy meeting you here!" | |
|---|---|
| "... I'm sorry, do I know you?" | |
| "I'm Maya. We met at Ain's birthday last week, remember?" | |
| "Oh, yeah, right! Sorry, that was a long night, I can barely recall most of what happened." | |
| "It's fine, I get it. I was tired to death after it too." | |
| "So... what have you been up to, these past few days?" | |
| "Not much, really. I try to take it easy." | |
| "I've been chilling in my room, listening to music, chatting with friends, that sorta stuff..." | |
| "Ah, sounds nice. What kind of music do you listen to?" | |
| "Mostly metal. I really like The Fading Lines." | |
| "What, really? No way, I'm a big fan of theirs too!" | |
| "Hah..." | |
| "Are you just saying that to pretend you relate, or...?" | |
| "No, I'm being for realises!" | |
| "I've had a poster of them hung up on my wall for ages." | |
| "Damn, that's awesome." | |
| "Yeah. What's your favourite song, of theirs?" | |
| "Probably Sta |
Damnit. My handwriting has grown smudged on the page, and I lift the girl off to inspect her.
Her face has grown dull, and indistinct. Blobbish. I can't write with her like this.
So I grab my sharpener and put her head into it, and twist her around a few times.
I can see through its glassy surface, how the shavings of her face break off against the blade, and how they pile up in the container on the inside.
But when it is done, I take her head out, and see the sharpness of her nose and teeth, renewed. Refreshed and all cleared up and ready to be used.
Although she is a little shorter now. Her legs, her spine, her whole figure generally looks a bit more stout, at least comparatively to how she was before.
But she's still good, for now. I point her face down and begin writing again.
| "Probably Starlight Queen." | |
|---|---|
| "Oh, that one's good. I personally like Cold as Steel." | |
| "Really? That one?" | |
| "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, I just never really think about it that much." | |
| "Ah... that's fair, it's definitely one of their more unusual ones." | |
| "Yeah, maybe I oughta listen to it a bit more." | |
| "Honestly, all their music's really good." | |
| "They've gotten me through tough times." | |
| "Yeah. Such as Ain's birthday..." | |
| "Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad!" | |
| "Oh, tell that to the garlic and olive cake!" | |
| "God, that's a moment for the history books." | |
| "Hey, listen..." | |
| "Can I | |
Damnit. The words are looking dull again. Hurriedly, I take my sharpener again and twist her around in it a few more times. This story is getting good, I need to get to the end of it.
But I pull her head out, and softly groan. I sharpened her too brusquely, and accidently broke her features off again, and her face is still pointless. I stick her back in the sharpener.
Shorter and shorter she gets. At last, her face is pointy, and witty, and smiling again, and ready to be used.
But god, she's small now. There's so little to her. Almost proportionally like a child. I can barely grip her correctly between my fingers.
Nonetheless, I put her down one more time and keep writing on.
| "Can I trust you?" | |
|---|---|
| "... I, mean... I hope you can." | |
| "I think I would trust myself." | |
| "Alright, so, would you wanna come to my place?" | |
| "Oh, absolutely! I'd love to see it. Don't see any reason I shouldn't..." | |
| "Well, okie dokie then, come in." |
[She takes a key out of her pocket and puts in into her right ear,]
[and twists until the side of her face pops open.]
[I delicately step through, climbing in and looking around,]
[while her lips talk to me from outside.]
| "Oh wow, this place is awesome!" | |
|---|---|
| "Damn, you really like it that much?" | |
| "Yeah. I quite like the blue colour scheme you've got with the wallpaper and ceiling here, it's elegant." | |
| "And my, your bed is so soft..." | |
| "You're lucky to live in place like this." | |
| "Hah..." | |
| "I'm not sure if that's kindness or flattery, but thanks, I'll take it as a compliment" | |
| "You're welcome, I suppose." |
[I look around once more, savouring it and committing it to memory,]
[while I take a deep breath, and then step back out of her head]
[onto the street, while she turns the key again and locks herself back up.]
| "Well... It's been fun, to talk to you now, but I think I gotta get going." | |
|---|---|
| "Yeah, me too." | |
| "But we should hang some more, some time!" | |
| "Yeah. I totally feel the same." | |
| "Well, I'll catch you later!" | |
| "See ya!" | |
| "Wait, actually I |
Damnit. The writing is blurred. Again.
I lift her off the paper and look at her face. There's no words left in her. She's too short.
Yet I still stick her head in the sharpener and shave off what's left of her. I can't stand to look at her dull face.
Shavings come off and cramp into the waste-tank on the inside.
And when I pull her out, all that's left of her is a tiny stump. Her clean little feet.
I run my thumb across them for a bit and then put her feet to the page.
Trying to erase that last bit, that unfinished line. I've decided I don't need it.
But when I rub them across that half-sentence, they doesn't erase it. They just leave a darkened, black streak in its place, at the bottom of the page.
Damnit. The page is ruined now. And her feet are dirty. She's spent.
Holding what remains in my hand, I frown. I can't stand to look at her dirty feet either. I guess I just can't stand to look at her at all.
With a sigh, I absent-mindedly pull open my desk drawer and drop her in with the others.
And I scrunch up the paper into a ball and put it in the trash bin under my desk. There's nothing left to write on it.
I reach for the stack at the corner of my desk and pull free a blank sheet of paper, putting it down right in front of me. White and crisp.
Think. Think.
I know. I know exactly what I'm going to write on this page. And I know exactly how I'm gonna write it. I think I've finally got it right.
I just need someone to write it with.
It's okay. I've got patience. I'll just wait for the pigeon, that bleary-faced pigeon, to come to me again and get me someone new to use.
And so I'll wait.
My elbow propped onto the desk, my chin and cheekbone leaning against my hand. It hurts a little. My face is as sharp as a razor.
Passing the time and the boredom, I softly kick my feet against the bin under my desk over and over. Like the rhythm of a leaky faucet.
I can't stand to look at it.
This is a poem I wrote last December, after a particularly dismal day of being swarmed by these thoughts, when I stayed up writing this late into the night. It seems all my best work comes out at night... But I digress. It's about that sense of loneliness, when nobody seems to stick in your life for long. Sure, there's people you know, and you talk to, because you've all been placed together in a room, and you all keep coming back to that room for months. But as soon as you're done with that room, those people aren't part of your life anymore. They could be, if you wished. But it still seems like it never works out the way you want it to. Maybe one day, though...