Questions in Answers

She slumped against the door; her legs sprawled in a crooked lump beneath her, arms draped from her shoulders in apathetic arcs. Eyes, wide with resigned panic, followed my nervous gesticulations while her head raised in a studious poise. She had given me her truth, and now I crazily raced for an understanding of the offer presented to me. Words babbled from this dripping mouth, gorged from hungry frustrations, now falling away, all for the simple faith of this girl before me. The frugal fruits of my minds pursuance were escaping to wild freedom once more.
I had understood her words better than all the rhetoric I could command; empathy raged within. How could the connection express itself? Not through me; my chattered visage hunched on the chair, fidgety hands running expectantly through reluctant hair. I couldn’t look at her. My lips continued moving, the words spinning restless circles in the air between us, ignoring the beauty before me; the gem she had procured, and rested in the palms of my imagination. I was spending too much time attempting the correct articulations, acting like one who never heard the real meaning behind her story. She wasn’t asking for my help or advice, she wasn’t looking for pity. She had spoken of horror, while her palms rested coldly upon her shoulders, hugging her chest, staring emptily at the crumpled papers beneath my feat.
Her eyelashes framed perfectly round, clear eyes. She had asked me to be her friend; to be someone with whom suffering can be shared, understanding catalyzed, and faults forgiven. I knew this. I had understood the moment her story was carefully unfolded to me, removed from the lace and padding, dislodged from the wooden chest. My answer? Yes, Yes YES! It thundered against my chest, drumming my ribs and pounding my heart. But words, the divinity of their hidden meanings, which could I command to express my answer to her proposal? I fumbled diligently, succeeding only in my inept responses, each one tripping forward before it had even taken step.
I glanced at her, still wilting in my doorway. Her head now rested on the wall, and she blinked with glassy lids. Had she already concluded from my lost and losing responses that I did not comprehend? Don’t go, not yet! screamed from my eyes. Don’t let my groping rhetoric turn you away. This door is not closed! Please, hear the desperation beneath the cool and quiet words.
You asked for the most beautiful gift, and now I request another in return: understand that I grasp the plea, and cling to its supplicating figure in the warmest embrace. But know also that I lack all means, in words or in actions, to tell you so.