Sometimes I have no thoughts, no words, no witty remarks and no clever retorts. I get an expression on my face that I've never personally witnessed, but I imagine the picture I have is close to accurate: eyes oddly focused on a design in the carpet or a grain pattern in your chair, eyebrows and lips occasionally moving just slightly, as though I'm trying to see something more clearly.
My thoughts are something like bars of soap, and I like to try to hold onto them, examine them, understand them, run them down to the slimy layer on a soap dish, good for nothing except to serve as a reminder to find a new bar. (My eyes focus in on wood-grain patterns.) But then there are moments where I grip too tightly and send them flying across the tub. They tease me, dancing around me in circles, coming close enough to rest in my palm, remind me of their weights and smells, leave a slimy residue as a souvenir before they slip down along the porcelain wall, tripping and spinning on the drain, getting sliced up into pieces and squeezing their way down rusting pipes. (My lips pout and my eyebrows arch in frustration).
Sometimes they feel more alive than a molded blob of lye and lard, like a deer, staring me down from across the field. Letting me take a few steps closer. Letting me look into her eyes, see the tension running through her muscles as she sizes me up. (My eyes focus in on carpet designs). Then she decides she doesn't trust me to treat her well. And she'll make the turn to run. And I chase her. And we weave through trees and bound over fallen logs and stumble through piles of rocks and leaves. (My lips purse and my eyebrows furrow in determination). But she's fast, so I give up and watch her disappear, shaking my head in quiet defeat.