You sign your name for fear of being forgotten — something akin to disappearing for even the strongest among us. And although I’ve always told you (with words) that words do not matter, I must concede that your name is now such a prominent and favorable entry in my thesaurus that losing it could only leave my speech empty, and as such, at least that one word matters a whole lot.
And for you I will say any and all the words you crave, if it so calms your soul. As for myself, just the knowing of your being here with me is enough.
You see, in all my years (few as they may be) never have I known the birds to change their cries or the wind its whistle, whilst I’ve felt that all these silly sounds we make change far too often, and their purpose becomes much too ambitious. Once, I was a child simply wanting to know the name of the sky, the sun, the clouds — my words were never charged with the hefty task of another’s happiness, or the weighty crime of another’s sorrow.
And yet now I see, hear, say words until they seem foreign and without meaning at all. I see them, their tangled limbs impressed upon pages until they appear to return to all they ever really were — a trace of lead, a drop of ink, or on occasion, blood. I hear them, tired, dull and unrelenting against my aging eardrums, until they are merely noise. I say them, shouting “fuck” until “f” sounds not like such a ferocious fricative, and whispering “love” until the emotion no longer seems so pure, though neither so daunting (and I don’t know what to make of that).