To capture the beautiful dances of your speech,
or the intense eyes of a mime,
I sold my hope yes, for a world to reach.
I put our secrets down on paper
and turned our privacy into poems
I sold, yes I sold my story,
for it to be read by lovers.
The simple and the sublime,
the new, the old, the lost.
My guitar lays against the wall,
the G string missing
your silence still hissing.
Sometimes I drift away even by your side
and think about better times
times I've felt good.
You suck. I write. Drink. Repeat the rule.
I live deliberately nowadays
on hand on my heart, the other extended,
ready to be surprised and to document it.
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