behind them along the stoned roads
next to the stoned faces
among the cafes selling such
stones
right after he said she's different with me
a side only birthed when our hair's entangled
once every year or so
(now)
and tangle it does; our strands are so similar
she starts with words
stretches in sentences
hand written usually in a park
on a bench
with a book
and a pen
she said it is tremendously cliched, tedious
she just thinks she has to
so she does it anyway
then she asked me
unpublished but aware of my pining
not to be shiny or gloried but
to be heard
or at least, perhaps more accurately,
to have the strength to want to speak
silently
implanted with colour and thickness
or simple words we've all written
i've no desire to move my lips
let alone hear sound come out
id' much rather have a simmer
stewing in my own marinade
nozzled at my bitten nails
an accurate portrayal of my mind's own missive
sounding the way soda cuts
when you crack it open and
chug it down
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