I've heard your voice more than once.
The air fully embraces all the sounds you make.
People less so much. They are more discerning.
They don't want to hear everything.
Your story should be shortened, maybe a few
paragraphs or pages if you're ambitious.
I've turned away from your face.
Your four eyes continue to stare in all directions.
Focus on washing my feet and not think of you.
She said to me your words are plain.
Your sentences are rushed and letters mishappen.
That is because I've written on blank pages
with different colors.
No one color to no one page but many.
The importance of it is the meaning.
I missed hitting a bird with my car.
This makes sense to me.
Ghosting crosses my mind when it comes to you.
I've fumbled my responses more than twice.
The memories etched into my twisted brain.
People don't know. They can't understand it.
They are busy absorbing the street actions.
Your life will be long, maybe longer if
you take a special pill.
I've taken a wrong turn.
My hands no longer want to be guided.
Open my mouth and not swallow the pain.
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