Books

You sort of wrote,
“too many words,”
as though,
I could, “read them all,”
as though I had,
when I hadn’t,
when I never did,
as though, “you and I,”
had actually met
somewhere before,
and you said something
and I play acted,
put on a face, pretended,
like I hadn’t
heard a thing you said,
as though,
“I didn’t know,”
who you were,
when I knew
all along,
but never bothered
to take the time
to ask for your autograph,
like so many others,
didn’t know,
didn’t care,
why it was, “why was it?”
you were eyeing me
from the corner,
like some shadow
who had lost its voice
and still…
has yet to find it.

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