I hear you

in the round dome of a car cabin,

in the silence of no radio,

in the click of a turn signal.

There isn’t a single symbol

that can explain anything I want to say.

English is psychiatry if you want it to be.

And I do.

I can break you down like a character,

your descriptions coming from my own eyes,

trying to read in between the lines

of real life,

relaxed after all these months of the same people every day.

And somehow I want to say:

You know. Clearly. Obviously.

How do you know it all?

From that one book

barely hanging on the wall,

clinging with just a few pieces of tape?

And how can that tape hold up that many memories? How can paper hold memories? And how come you’ve memorized all of it?