Nothing is sufficient, nothing explains
Every moment, a list of things I could say
Every moment the list is changing
There are a few things I can hold on to for weeks
Hope of love is one
But even that tends to die
Every day, a book. Every day a book.
And she cannot read this book.
But I feel that transference should occur.
Maybe she could read it in my face, or my voice.
But she seems disinterested.
For each moment, a filter over my speech.
A different filter for a different set of ears.
But I wish that I could say everything,
but no one is that interested,
no one has that kind of time.
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