Truth in stitches

We give each other grammar lessons
and drift through conversations like they were made of smoke
that floats into the rooms that always seem so empty.
I feel like I need to get up, although I know I’m already standing
where I thought they would be landing and
I wanted to hear tires sanding down the runways
like knuckles grazing our concrete walls.
Your voice drops hints into notes
fully touching the traces left as messages
like a film on a stained glass window.
I haven’t been myself in a long time,
I haven’t been that side that slides
like in the pictures you used to take
when we were always together.
Always,
like it were a more of an amount of time
and not just the days that we had,
still blistering facts
like heart poems
left to know only
the meaning of change and Skype orgasms.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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