why do the words still linger,
yet refuse to touch down and blossom?

one would think the rehashing
of non-existent memories would not trigger
such a flood of emotion.

tiptoed through the watersource,
hoping for recognition on the other end.
there exists only echoes of my own voice.

overdrawn,
the well is brittle and arid.

wantings of bliss
but no one here understands the language
spoken softly in the full moonlight.

you spoke through me, so eloquently; and then...

07/21/2014

Posted on 07/21/2014
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