What is it to you
What do you know
What do you know, my love
when your words
the secrets I gathered
from long conversations
and your remarks about me
which spoke more of yourself
than of me
those words are etched on my walls
and on paper
I wrote them down
some as they were being spoken
some later,
a year or two
some I never wrote
you who were so afraid of being
pinned down; discovered,
(no, was that me?)
caught
in the act of being human
you love with the ferocity of a wild animal
and your hands clench at the very sight of me
I, who do not understand perhaps
that taciturnity is not always helplessness.
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