Year of writing 118. 28/30

4/28/30

28/30

Voices sound different in rooms
devoid of that which we collect.
There is nothing to absorb the echo,
to soften the edges of words. When
this house is finally empty of everything,
when it is just me and the walls, I will
tell myself this is for the best.  I will say
this one last time, and I will listen for
the echo, for the sincerity on that razor's edge.