UnbrokenI wouldn't know how to describe a painting or a sonata, but I can tell someone how I feel, even if they rarely understand what I mean. You often disappoint me, but no one notices. They're not listening anyway. One person knows me. When I talk to him I feel like a knife in the drawer, because my words have power. Any damage would be irreparable. He and I are like a house falling apart. Our sidewalk is askew and our mailbox is missing. It is painted pink and yellow. We love it, it's unique. Last night I stomped my feet on the floorboards because I wanted to feel my toes in the dirt. I pushed my hands through the ceiling and kicked the walls down. I know he wonders why I do things like that. I just wanted to let in some air. I said, "Look honey, now we can see the stars." He swept away the debris and put me to bed. He won't sleep tonight. His thoughts stay awake with the moon trying to exercise the demons in his mind. Too intelligent, too spiritual for his peace. A shaman, unlocked over time. A stroke of genius and a slap in the face to this world. Always restless, looking for answers. Impulsive and inspired, he wrote down his thoughts. Funny stories about Elvis and his followers, the Elvi, or dirty poems. He painted his visions on sheets hanging from the gutters or painted me with psychedelic drawings. It doesn't matter which. All of this makes me want him more. Some things I say to him are like false notes played too often. I'm tone deaf. Always sing together. Our waltz is better than most, I suppose. We know the steps by heart. The world moves quickly around us and at our quiet, drunken pace, but we don't care. Our minds move quickly despite the little distractions of this world. It's us and them, and we're the only two sane people left. It still makes me nervous. His dreams are bigger than the two of us. When we speak the words fall from my lips. They are not enough to explain who I want to be. I'm so imperfect. He says: "Sometimes people have imperfections that are worth living with. You're a little eccentric. That's part of your charm." This man knows me and loves me anyway. He's crazier than me. Eight years might as well be a thousand as far as we're concerned. The story has roots that go deep. They go to the center of the earth and come back and wrap around