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Your voice is a three in the morning guitar strum: sleepy eyelids and bathtubs construct themselves on foggy days where they drip in silence. I conjure old bookshelf emotions by marveling at the familiar stitching of your vocal cords against symmetrical linoleum tiles that bleach themselves every other day. Sometimes your voice reminds me of open roads at dusk and the sound of the sky crying softly against my umbrella, five twenty-one pm. I want to tell the sky I sympathize. Sometimes people just refuse to listen.

Out in the fields, children play tic-tac-toe with your bones and suddenly you are aware of the vultures that unpin themselves from the skies and onto the earth, where they lurk. I want to tell you how your words mean nothing to me now, despite the fact that I put stones in my pocket sometimes.

When I was fifteen I used to bleed my emotions out into steady streams for anyone who was willing to listen. You told me to forge my chin up and be brave because uncertainty roamed in the shadows after sunset, obscured by the clouds we paid no heed to during daylight. Nightfall in suburban neighborhoods used to feel hollow, but the neighbors with their pastel wallpaper tuck themselves into beds with ease. Birds sing on telephone wires at six am sharp.

Praying hands look a lot like patient butterflies if you really think about it and I am silently impatient but I have so many things to tell you.

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