Sometimes, we screamed in words of reds and blacks and maroons.
And now, we speak in silences of white and blue and sometimes opaque.
We speak in words not said to each other, at each other or for each other.
Words that hang in limbo. No one to claim it as their own. No one to nourish it. Or tend to it.
They are orphan words. They wander around the mind, slap haplessly against the walls of my heart. But mostly, it bounces off my skin.
Brown and beautiful, born of the Earth, made of clay and moulded carefully.
Smooth and tender to the touch. Like the petal of a flower. With a perfume you once recognized.
If you touch me now, will I break?
If you blow gently on my face, will it crumble in your hands?
If you hold me now, will I wilt?
If you talk to me, will I recognize your words?
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