Is it stealing to keep the words that

were never meant to reach my ears?

 

Those conversations and gossip that

travelled around the world with my soul.

They are nomads in the countryside who

take in the flowers and grassy scenery to

save for later on a rainy day

when they have nothing left

to draw on but their memories.

 

The images and words stick with me

despite the fact that I cannot

sleep because of it because the words

don’t just reflect across mirrors,

they echo down the cave walls

as a stranger yelps his secrets

into the concave opening.

They trickle from water faucets,

dripping to the bottom of the sink

plopping a sound that irritates

the walls of my thoughts.

 

They have sounds that make

me cringe, my teeth grinding

together in my sleep to ease

the pain of the words I keep.

I wonder if the sources of these painful

memories would have changed their tune

if they knew that words are never as light

as ice water on a hot, summer day.

 

Their words are more like liquid cement being

shaped down an untouched pathway.

The paste sticks to the soles of my feet,

Leaving behind a print of my time,

a time stamp to mark the memories

in the dark spots to forever

remind me of the words

that were never meant to be mine.

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