At least I mean what I say when I write.
You don’t write; you speak.
You speak rather eloquently,
But what does that mean
Since you don’t seem to mean what
I hold onto your words
That aren’t on pages
Until my pen makes each one eternal that night.
I linger and rest in the eloquence,
But we both know I shouldn’t.
For I am someone who likes words,
And you just talk so damn well.
Maybe you’re afraid you can’t interpolate your words on paper.
However, you can do that with the ones you’ve spoken;
I shouldn’t have been surprised when you did.
-After all, your spoken words were written by me.