with words. they were never
spoken.
just on the page, each serif
a hook in the eye.
when i did speak, words
billowed out like clouds,
flowed over my lips
like smoke from a fog
machine,
each phrase carefully posed
for maximum theatrical
effect.
those words were a stain
on your skin, your body
a parchment on which i wrote
songs in your favourite key,
over and over and over,
fading like an echo or with
wear.
now there is only the memory
of words, poorly captured.
they escaped the net
like butterflies, or fish
that swallow the bait
then spew it from their
mouth.
now those words are ghosts,
ripples on the surface.
the
wind carries them away.
