Softer now

Use your velvet voice
Tread lightly with the sounds you make
Speak as if there was no phone, no miles
Between us, but as if you could feel the
Tiny hairs on my soft creamy skin with your lips
Let the space between us evaporate
If only for a treasured moment
I will hear you

So imagine, a well of pain.  Deep, boiling, roiling pain that seemingly has no end, no bottom, no relief.  No clear source even.  Imagine it percolates, bubbles, sweats to the surface like huge pools of lava.  Crews are working constantly, and metaphorically, as sand fills the space left by the hot magma, dry cool sand that shores up the outer shell, mimics a solid form again.  But magma remains.  In other vast gaping holes.  Constantly on the move.  Well meaning souls with clumsy feet come along to explore.  Wear their best hiking boots, steel toe maybe.  Strong enough...when they trip - to launch that steel toe right through the outer cooling crust.  Oops.  So didn't mean to do that!  But now the hole from the bottom to the top is wide open.  Now the magma has an escape route.  Now there is an explosion of grief, of pain.  Manifesting as a tearful thundering rain.  The monsoons are indeed here again.  I wonder if they bring Compassion.

"are you still writing?"
"writing what?"
"anything?  anything at all?"
"i wrote something the other day.  (pause for thought) i don't think it was very good."
"and who are you to judge exactly?"
"well, i wrote it!"
"that doesn't mean anything"
"really?"
"really."
"why not?"
"because you wrote it.  you're too close to it.  once it's written you've lost your perspective on it."
"is that so?"
"it is."
"are you teaching Creative Writing now?  is that how you know so much?"
"no."
"well, then."
"i'm serious."
"i don't care."
"why not?"
"because i don't write for your approval.  or any one else's for that matter."
"is that so?"
"yes, it is.  thanks anyway."
"well, good for you."
"thank you"
"i'm serious."
"you said that."
"well, i'm saying it again."
"fine."
"fine."