I'm sorry the circumstances are difficult for you, dear.

The locust flew towards me. I submitted to its crinkling limbs as they folded over my upright shoulders. We flew to a dark place. I couldn't see. Beyond my dissolving hearing I could discern water in a plastic cup. I told myself over and over again that it was falling into the cup and filling it. I felt the locust shift beside me

(hard, hard exoskeleton abrasion)

and suddenly realized I didn't know if the water was falling to the floor or filling the glass. Was it half full, or was it emptying into the dark? This all-encompassing gloom, this obscurity that came with the locust I called friend and lover. I felt in the dark for a thorny appendage. I knew that the water was falling onto the floor because here it came, crippling my toes with cold as I held the hand of a barbed lover.

(He filled me with shade.)