Do colors roam aimless and feral with no names and acquaintances?
Do you taste the worry as sour as lemons in the space between our words,
in the pauses of superiority we breathe so effortlessly,
when no speech befuddles your end of the can and string?
Does the tightness of the drum set in your ears trickle clearer
in the dusty rain we hear on the roof overhead?
Is that question in your eyes born from a lack of knowing
or from questioning these archaic movements of speech?
When you learn to reply will you have already forgotten the true answer?



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