i cannot hear the ticking of clocks.
i cannot hear leaves as they blow
or tires on the road.
i am a stranger to hearing your whispers
and talking on the phone.
i cannot hear the ceiling fan
or water dripping.
i cannot hear the sharp edges of your words.
they fade away
and i am forced to guess at the blurry shapes left.
I got the idea from one of your old stories. Building golems out of river mud and whatnot. Except I didn't want a golem. I just wanted you back by my side.
My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to
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