These days, every day comes with a fear
of the impermanence of meaning
in your shape shifting words.
Hold my hand as an act of pity, lest
I sink deeper into the quicksand
of our conversations.
Talk to me like you would to a child;
explain every sound, every phrase.
Break it down so I don’t wonder
if your laugh was the idiom
or the veil.
Don’t trail off with a look,
I can read words, not vacant faces.
Don’t leave it to me to discover
the codes and the subtext.
I wish I had the sanity and control
to tell your art from your lies.
Don’t leave me holding on to a mangled mess
of masked expressions.
It’s slow death.
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