Number 17

the silent area

It seems to me that we’re specs of matter
And it doesn’t matter
if we spend our lives on the backstage of venues and the rooftops of clubs.

It seems to me that I’m ambient noise
that woke up to find
whatever I write
revolves around you

I don’t mind that.

And when I tried to paint love
I couldn’t pick a color
so I chose you
and drowned my fingers in the full gamut.

It seems to me
that I splattered those pigments all over your silence
but as long as you laugh
I don’t mind that.

It doesn’t matter
We’re specs of matter.

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