Tears for the Garden

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


I checked the hurt on my tongue. It was hard not to respond in kind, a struggle to not spit red-hot knives aiming for the open wound on her heart.

No.

I wouldn't do that. She's hurting enough already. Even through the internet I could feel it bleeding out of my screen. As a species we were not ready for this kind of connection. My heart felt shrunken and swollen at the same time--five pounds heavier and getting denser as it collapsed upon itself. I could feel physically feel some of her pain. I could point to it: a spot under the breastplate in the upper left side of my chest.

I'd always been more sensitive to emotions than anyone else I knew. Not just sensitive like I know you're happy, sad, or angry. It is that but it's more than that too. I drink in the emotions around me and they become mine even when I don't want them. Maybe especially then. They bled through walls that were more chain link fence than interlocking stones.

It would be easier to just say goodbye than to risk hurting us again.

Goodbye.


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