its times like this I wonder,
when I exhale and watch
the mist rise from my lips into the crisp night sky,
where do my whispers go
when there is no ear to catch the sound waves?
do they bounce off the walls and fences
down the alleyways until they stop at some
dead end cardboard box graveyard
brick walls for a friend
or do they sink in
absorbed in the soil, feeding the vines and leaves
filling the veins of the earth with the oxygen
of pure unadulterated emotion
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