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.