the silence between me and you has never had meaning.
It was. Love it, that was all that was asked.
But now it has happen - no words for the foretime,
the desperation has made me the same, has made me another.
Who looks at the shape of a fish grow giant on the side of his bowl?
Who walks on the terrace observing foliage from above?
Who hears the snapping of plastic that wraps like cellophane bare branches of climbers, you don't know.
And I who descend the stairs, neither
I am the same, I am another.