FoxWhite-42

What happens to the left over bits of conversation? The sighs breathed through skin and the screams released through hands that go unnoticed in the blinding sun that speaks so loud and the stars that shine like candles in the windows of the soul They’re dropped like breadcrumbs the scraps errantly missed and cast off into the patient maws of the dogs just under the table that are a thousandth of an inch outside your range of vision Ordinary people, the ones with their eyes in front and their brains screwed on straight They don’t notice what we see they do not feel the pull of words, the pull of silence like the primordial string