Read My Lips

I feel my smile’s font grown smaller from the world’s insane headlines.

All the hostility and instability:

It’s like stumbling into someone’s memoir uninvited.

Like a poorly constructed IKEA bookcase in the living room of a dying friendship.

Some days, those strange headlines rush and tumble into our lives, shatter our personal alphabet, then leave us to pick up the pieces of broken lives and languages.

I remember days when we used to read poetry to one another on the front porch of my aorta. How every line would beat a distinct pulse of love.

I can still hear it now.

It’s a comforting feeling,

like how I know my daughter‘s old baby cradle won’t wake up one day to realize it’s a nest of grenades.

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