I've toyed with the notion of tearing a page from this place.
A gift of paper folded into paper.
I would sit cross-legged, facing him, and slide it over the (sometimes preposterous distance of) wrinkled bedsheets between my knees and his fingers.
A piece of me.
He would lift it up and carefully unwrap it, meeting my eyes for a moment before looking down to find that he is holding my insides between thumb and forefinger.
I imagine his furrowed brow trying to translate.. to make sense of the context for a time much longer than required to read it through.
Did you write this? he might think aloud.
Is it true? because he won't remember.
And what do you suppose he would do with the tiny story I gave to him?
Would he find value? Or indifference?
Would he find me there? Or just strung out words?
No one knows about this sanctuary of mine. Not Jack. Not Laila. Not my little sister (who might be too wrapped up in her own life to read for the sake of being a part of mine, but who should one day stumble into this darkness because we are two old souls lost in time).
I could delete that last paragraph. That would tidy it up -- a little nip/tuck into something simple, something more complimentary of the Christmas packaging.
I might die forever in the sins of such omission.