Disclaimer - The Beyblade Series is not mine *sadface*

A/N - *Angst Alert* Another poem written while I was waiting for my meds to work so I could get some much needed sleep. Poor Tala. Again.

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"Why did you stop talking', I ask him

He's sitting in a stained plastic garden chair

Pale limbs folded up and perched like a bird

I stare at the notebook in his lap

Yellowing and frayed at the edges

Wishing and almost expecting it to speak for him

Instead the only noise is soft breathing

And the scritchyscratch of a pen over paper

Secret whispers I hear but don't get to see yet

The wait is tension, folding my spine into origami

He holds up the book

'I stopped talking and started writing because no one listens.

Even if they ignore written words, they're still there'

I frown, feeling the movement deep-etched

'But they'd listen now'

Whisper of pen and paper again

'It's too late for that'

I dream of Tala, that wordless man, every night

I dream of his face wrapped in gauze or mouth taped or lips sewn delicately with thin thread

The thread looks fragile enough to snap

If he would only open his mouth

I dream of hi saying it'stoolateit'stoolateit'stoolate over and over

Echoing regrets into my head

I dream of him as a flower, blooming and opening and speaking, laughing like a child

But he is afraid

Tala turns over his long arms and shows me slashes, red and faded pink

Covering his thin skin

I don't know what to say

So I follow his example

And stay silent

I take his notebook, his mouth, and write in it

This time I'm the one telling secrets

'Why?'

I give it back to him

'Why what?'

He hands it back to me

And his skin brushes mine

It's warmer than I thought it would be

'Everything'.

'That's a lot of whys.'

'Why…everything about you, though?'

'Because.'

'Because why?'

'Because I am.'

He kisses me

And suddenly I am everything he is, too

I am the sourness of the tart lemon candies he sucks on

The strawberry-kiwi chapstick he wears

The rustle of the worn cotton of his sleeves

I am the sadness twisting in his stomach

The happiness clawing at his throat

The dread that makes his hands tremble

Suddenly, I am quiet too

I want to know what his voice sounds like

I knew years ago

Canned at the end of a phone line

But that it not valid

If he spoke now, it would be real

Not pre-packaged

Muffled by distance and electric transfers

What would he say?

I know what I want him to say

That he loves me

That I am beautiful

Or that he likes the sound of my laughter

I wish he were a doll

So I could dress him up to be happier

And have him say whatever I want

I would put him in a world where nothing could hurt him

A perfect dollhouse

He is too real

And it scares me

Tala is not dressed in fancy clothes

Even though his hair is long and styled

And his skin is porcelain-smooth

'Will you say something for me?' I ask

He stares at me

And I realize I don't know if his eyes are blue or grey

Even looking straight at them

I only know that they are large

And awfully sad

He writes.

What do you want me to say?

"What ever you're thinking."

His voice cracks like ice when you pour hot water over it

"I miss you."

"I'm right here."

He writes.

'No, you're not...'