Telling

I want to tell him, to show him what I have, what I mean, and what I'm made of. I pull his hand, pull him towards me and open my world to him. I throw open the doors and the shutters and the shades and it all falls out at once, having been stuffed too full for too long.

He laughs it off as the mess sinks to his feet. He kicks it around, like fallen confetti and streamers after a party, and my face sinks as it settles. With a hand on my shoulder, he tells me simply, "You're crazy."

And he means it well. He means it jokingly. He means it to collect the mess and put it away, hand it back to me. A dismissive, quick, analysis. Sometimes, he says it more to himself, though he doesn't know I think so. He notes it, tucks it away in his own mind's closet, which is probably neat and organized, with each bit sealed in boxes and taped shut. He might have a shoebox, reserved for me. About me. Maybe. Maybe it's filled with little notes. Crazy, they probably say, she's crazy. Buried at the bottom are the things he might not want to know. The lid is kept shut. But I wouldn't know. I've never seen it.

He doesn't understand. He sees a tangle of yarn without a beginning or an end to unravel. He sees letters that don't make words in languages that don't exist. He sees doorless rooms and staircases that don't go down. A past that won't be remembered and a future that doesn't have a chance.

Even now, I can't explain. I think in shades the rest of the world seems to be colorblind to.