It Is A Memory

I saved up so many

sonnets inside

because you don’t like words,

wastes of time

paper in waste baskets

crumpled pages on the floor

boxes in rooms with covered windows

(rainbow film when you tilt your head).

The only words I heard

were about the stories you didn’t write down,

visions when you tilted your head

(rainbow, paper,)

so the world was off center

 

and I am tilted.

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