She speaks her

language to me, newly. More back and forth recital and glances, into her vision and the return– she settles her words on page, it becomes our page, intersection of destiny and thought, philosophy caught. She probably won’t remember but I will. She walks back into the room to tell me something else. I don’t hear a word, not one syllable connects. I only give attention to visual, her initial notes, her airborne notes I inhale and closes eyes close to some atmospheric lift. I watch her talk– me deaf, a couple deaths.

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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