Sunday, March 30, 2014

sunday morning

I collect my thoughts
& spread them on my palms,
hoping you'll read them.
I collect them in my hands
& blow them in your face.
Read that.
When I'm frustrated
& don't understand
why you act the way you do 
only then do you speak
to tell me that it's all inside,
in a neat mess,
tied up & tangled by your silence.
I try to unravel it with my words
but you don't even want to begin.
I add to the knots,
the troubled thoughts,
& you want to leave
& no longer speak
& my love feels weak
for not finding the center of the maze 
built inside you.
It's already enough for you
when I start to ask deeper questions;
the sticks & stones in your tones
make me quiet 
& I have nothing left to say
except I'm sorry,
but you're gone already.

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