I’m drowning. Drowning in paper. “You tattooed all these maps with all kinds of lines—rich, thick and thin, blurred and clear. But my map? White space. Cartographer, do you care?” I crinkle the paper—tear-stained. Mine. Mistaken for dribbled tea. Watermarks chronicle pain.
You pluck the map from the grate—cracked, fire-singed. Metal taps glass bottle. Your fountain pen. At last. But I don’t hear a thing. No pen dyeing paper. Parched. Your voice, bourbon—dry, deep, and scratch—whispers, “Wait.”
I spin a globe, threatening to tilt the world off its axis. But I can’t. I can’t interfere with the gravitational pull. “Why do some get globes? Hard. Resistant. Detailed. And others, maps? Crinkled. Burnt. Punctured.”
“Wait. Paper requires pressing. Priming. Drawn out presence.”
I flop into an armchair. “Couldn’t you add just a few details? It’d help with the waiting.”
“I’ve explored and charted the territory on a page you can’t see. Real. Inked.”
My fingers trace scrolled gold. “Inky seas and crimson peaks crafted on yellowed hide. You cared about all of these. Do you care about mine? Me? Or am I to be untouched? Uncharted? Waveless sea. Flat expanse. Blank.”
Your voice—liquid amber—burns. Clarifies. Purifies. “I move the pen. I know the paper. I know what it can bear. Wait. Allow the primer to seep. Let me apply it to your innermost fibers, staining your heart, fortifying conviction layer by layer.” Your hands bury my head in your body, and your tone turns into honey. “Do not say that I do not care for you. Those inky seas? My darkest night. Yellowed hide? My sweat. Crimson peaks? My blood shed for you.”
Seep. Seep into my most hidden part. Not my map, never mine. Yours. Not my air. Not my ink. But yours. Bought at a price. Worthy of my white space.
