river poets meandering through stacks of golden hay water rolling over jagged rocks as night turns to day pen to paper, written later reeks of means to hesitate ocean writers flicking lighters humming through to meditate when your chest is getting tighter smoke through cigarette haze
Sometimes, I don't listen to the words you speak. Instead, I watch as your lips curve and shape each sssound. Sometimes, I don't hear a word you've said, but I agree with every breath you've drawn between them.