The Words were Mine

The words were mine,

I said them,

I did.

But somewhere

their intended meaning changed,

into this puddled ooze,

that furrowed my own brow,

along with yours,

and we had to

begin again.

 

First,

a re-translation.

Then,

a second attempt.

Then,

the rising pitch of voices

at odds,

the angles,

too sharp,

too numerous.

 

All of this,

for what?

 

For us.

 

For what comes later,

when all is understood,

faces relaxed,

as we dream of summer,

in the afternoon,

still snowing,

still smiling,

with you.

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