I feel your words when I’m asleep,
The velocity of those fragile objects.
I feel the subtle change in temperature
From point to point of warm trajectories.
I want to draw the variations of your words,
Not like cold figures in a book of math
But like a surreal painting by Joan Miro,
All squiggly lines and curlicues,
Colorful amoebas that float on night.
How can these words feel so familiar
When they fall from a stranger’s lips?
You know what you do and why you do
What you do. What you don’t know is what
What you do does to me when you do it.
What you do does to me when you do it.
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