Seven Years

I can’t hear you while you’re speaking.
Your voice
your delicate sound
why is it silent when you answer me?
I hear it in the midst of night,
that delicate whimper;
that striving prayer.
Your truths and lies do not belong to you.
Who is it that owns your dreams?
Your eyes won’t betray your trust,
although I hoped they would.
I could never find you there.
Do you remember your voice?
Not the chatty laughs that haunt your mouth,
it must be so convenient to have a mirrored heart.
What is it that dwells behind a mirror after all?
A backward world or just a solid wooden frame?


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