Sunday, June 14, 2009

when she speaks

her words i drink with a familiar perfume of the past. flashes of faded green comforters cloud our conversation. she says much that leaves me with a want for the marrow of discourse...something i can take in, digest, and appease the hunger for substance. but instead, i engage in clandestine dialogues...alone, and her voice sadly fades into the shades of neglected eggshell walls.

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