He writes, "This is a roundabout way of saying that you remind me of so much." Here I feel like I am a balloon inside his head, or chest, expanding and elastic. I can be gently held in the curve of where one's head becomes neck becomes shoulder. I am obtuse but with malleability. "I don't always know what to do with that," he writes.
I take this with comfort and unease: I am a trigger for an unknown, distant both in place and meaning. I don't provide an answer or a feeling. If I am a reminder, then am I evading being an object? Or is your thought as real as my latex-balloon ego?
I wonder how I appear in the memory, and if I would like what I would see. One person's attractions are another's trash, but surely I must share some opinion of myself with someone who once whispered my praises. Vanity can be so obvious though when you are staring it straight in the face, when you have it in your hands and can feel for yourself: You're so soft here. You feel so good. Haven't you ever been reflected back in someone else's pupils?
But I can't stop the wonder - where does the shape of me fit, how does it really feel? Do I have a temperature, and is my skin dry or glistening? Am I transparent or revealing, like a sheer blouse with no bra, or less inviting, like a tampon string out of my swimsuit? I wonder if my memory is a beckoning shape, a smiling face, or is it withheld from involvement, distant, granular, eroding, the pixels fading carelessly to minutiae with every recall.
I am weaving together one's letter with another's memory. I am applying topically what should be swallowed, but capsules are so easy to twist apart, or take to scissors in my hands. How one man's words are another man's mouth are tangible to neither and not even to me.