Say something. You have the time, the materials. What are you waiting for? A handwritten invitation? There is no one left to do the writing but you; your soft, singular voice trying to break apart the silence and make it into something new, something better — looking for some sweet echo from the past to stir something (an emotion, a glance), anything to make someone want to stay. Maybe it’s time for a new magic trick. You have written love letters so long that your fingers are bleeding. This is no time to show everyone your insides, like your guts could be as pretty as constellations if only you could pin them up in the correct order. There is nothing pretty about blood, not even when it’s bled for someone else, not even when you mean it. Use ink instead. Stop bartering. This is not a trade. You have the experience. You do not need someone to compare your eyes to wishing wells, their unfathomable depths, how they’ve prayed to them — you can do that well enough. Twenty-six years and you’re finally getting it. This is yours. This space. This holy. This is yours. No one else could hold it without breaking it. They made the silence into expectations. The written word was meant for more than love. How about I show you my guts? They are not pretty. I’ve hung them from the walls — they say: I’m not sorry.