the sound of the radio left on

fills the house, even though i am in a separate room
and even though i keep the door closed. the flower

has bloomed once, but continues making empty buds,
three if i remember correctly. it is a matter of remembering,

which means affection to some, others regard dinner
as something to fetishize. my dinners begin to look

lonely in their stead, although they are nothing more
than what i believe. they are preparation, they are task,

if nothing else. i have given in— i now refer to myself as i,
and this is the first mistake. the second occurs when i can’t see:

without talking there is no voicelessness, just an absence
which goes unnoticed. what if all a voice does is make you stay?

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