day 63

His words, bundled up in undecipherable messages; sometimes a whisper, sometimes that gap or lack of words in my mind. Are these messages the creation of my lacunae, an ancient song passed down from cords of bowels? sometimes gentle, sometimes the nightmares that thrust me up from my slumber. Sometimes the taste of my rice, sometimes the sip of my wine. sometimes silence, absolute silence, or the decadent manoeuvres of my noisy limps.

Maybe, you're not meant to be heard. You are meant to be written, erased, rewritten; or sometimes, you are meant to be read, re-read and remembered.