Ambroise

We've met before. You with your wandering eyes, intent on piecing this all together. Those lashes bat so hesitantly, those lips part a bit, why so? You follow the words as I impart them for who's to say we're strangers? We've traveled this road before, word-to-eye with others, but now, we share this moment, at last. This moment, ethereal, an operation in limited dimensions. You do all the work, I know.

Heart on sleeve, I'll tell you, this wasn't easy. It wasn't an easy realisation for me, certainly not. To be bound, shackled to a page, within a space too small to be representative. Where do I start? To describe oneself so succinctly must surely be missing the point, right? What do you say when meeting someone for the first and last time with only a short time to spare? But time is not the problem, not as problematic as space.

What represents me? Where I was born? The circumstances of my birth are quite unique from embryonic idea to matured form, but really, this happens every day all over. I developed rather suddenly but less by metamorphosis than as a construct of chiseled marble, to relate proverbially. My parent was singular but also bipartisan for creators are sexless. Did you know that? How many children have you had by the way?

Where was I raised, you ask? Well, here of course, this page. My history is inferred for there isn't space here to include everything is there? I may not choose my words wisely (or do I choose them at all?) but they all symbolise meaning. Because words are like that, like lives, they embody the context infused upon them by others, like you. Encased in glass, if you will, waiting to be shattered to life. Otherwise, we dream of being noticed, gaze at ourselves in a sphere of water, crack under pressure.

I could tell you all about myself but then that would only be a part of me. That would be disingenuous. Perhaps, what would be best is, if I acted as vessel for your projection. Sound fair? That way we're both satisfied. That's what love is I've been told. Well, I haven't actually been told this but I feel it through the medium, you know, that fabric between parent and child? It's similar to that I think. To give, to receive, to return the reception, to accept the reflection. The first two parts are simple, the latter two dependent on the parties involved.

With me though, I'm entirely yours. You read me and I bask here, this sky the colour of a pale maiden's bitten thigh, warmed, dreamy, reluctant to leave, immortalised in page. We won't meet again but you can revisit this capsule, it will not fade like memory but it can only be as vivid as you make it. Do you love me? Don't answer that.