At the center of loneliness, ink bleeds. Nothing is intact but this. My voice slides backwards down my throat; my bloodstream retreats. I contract in perpetual coil and unfurl, electric tentacles of sadness stretch past my body borders but remain invisible to the ignorant eye. I can pulse with want. I am unmediated pain. I will challenge you to withstand me, to keep breathing in heaves of tears. I will tell you, no, you are not and no, you cannot, and no, you never will. I will eventually recede–not because I am leaving or forgiving, but because I know you well enough to respect your limit. I will knock again, satisfied to drip, drip, drip and tap slowly, steadily, the meanwhile.