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I write

The pieces on the board and pour us both tea while Kakashi cooks dinner in a big frying pan, delicious smells sizzling and popping in the air. Chicken, red pepper, rice, onion, olive oil, garlic, salt, they all float through the air and settle in my skin, in my hair, in the spaces between plates. I like the way the smell feel like something alive and real in the August heat, taking up all the space in the room around us. Company, that's what I want more than anything. Kakashi doesn't talk that much, but when he does I hear living things in his voice: amusement, happiness, annoyance, teasing and serious tones. Listening to him doesn't sound like the slap of water against metal, it sounds like rain falling in a forest, hitting the floor here, the leaves here, the branches there. A little different every time. Itachi talks like winter, like a dead thing. I shiver in the heat when I think of my brother dying. I don't want anymore death. It's bad enough that Itachi took the picture of our dead father and pitched it off the fire escape. The glass shattered instantly when it hit pavement. I never thought the sound of glass breaking could be so loud, so terrifying as to make me cry when Itachi barely blinked.

Because

The sound is a scratch, a tap,
A clack, a note.
A word. Le mot on the streets
Is my pencil, your piano keys,
Our weapons of validation
In the face of monosyllabic atheists.
Give me a pen and
I’ll show you that gods still exist
In cadence.

Therefore

"I won't pretend to love you when I don't. You're the only person I don't lie to. The honesty is a compliment. We live in an 'age of apology'- don't confuse it with authenticity. At least my lies are honest- at least I know when I'm lying and why I'm doing it. Would you prefer me to be a hypocrite? It's easily done and terribly vogue."

I am

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