What if the words you say are not your own? A mutiny without a voice. That of your words. Would it count if you did not know?
I could tell you about the old man who drew me while on a train. We shared a smoke and talked a few lies. Would you believe if I told you I felt pity at him on some level? Peddling his loneliness as art.
There is the impression of waves. Under the soles of my dog’s paws. There is the lithe bit of memory stuck in that impression. He still licks off the sound of his brother’s bike.
Water. Dripping. Of the board, washing away with it the ink of your smiles. I put my palm under but all I catch is the air between my fingers.
Call me. From the snow that has raised you so high. Call me. When the snow melts.
