Saturday

I wish we could talk in poems

You stand here, I stand there.
What a small line, what a small


I never made us soup.

Your silence is made of bones.
Only in small portions.

Come on, your looking rough. Eat my potatoes and air. Feel it in your lungs.


I tried to bring you coats, I will bring you coats always promising coats.



Sit back, loosen your voice,
there are all these other voices and they are so loud



Your silence is made of bones. Only in small portions it becomes uncomfortable.

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