in conversation
By jvriesema
- 233 reads
In conversations,
your words stand still
absorbing syllables at dinner under chandeliers
that shed prisms of candlelight
upon factory woven threads of linen
while waiters
serve
glasses of French wine that are somehow
lost in translation.
London echoes with footsteps and laughter.
Rain hopes for snow
and
snow longs for song.
Your sentences begin and end with consonants;
the vowels somehow missing.
I become a traveller within your soul
searching for the words that speak behind your smile.
Somehow,
I think,
the truth is elusive.
So,
in metaphors,
I run to the place where wind constantly blew
through lace curtains and candlelit snow;
sagas woven in the wool of his sweater.
The air becomes clearer with every memory.
And your words lose the essence of their significance.
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