How beautiful his words
Mirrors that reflect me
Melancholic yet happy
His words are the hands that stroke my brow
The arms that engulf me
And hold me close to his heart's warmth
How passionate his words
A symphony of language
A splash of colour
That speak my meaning
I am the ventroloquist's dummy
Moving my lips
While his words speak
I am in love not with him
But with his words
Which make her love
So much truer
1 comment:
The words usually come from something personal. Sometimes it is merely a reaction to something I reading, watching, listening to, etc. This one was written in the middle of reading a biography of Truman Capote.
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