There’s no
word for you. There’s no word
for what
you do to me. For what you do,
somehow,
and you don’t know you do it,
to my mind
with just your voice, so that
everything
I once was sure of seems wrong;
for what
you do to my way of seeing,
so that I
start to doubt my own eyes if
what my
eyes report isn’t just like what
I hear you
say; and for what you do to
my voice to
keep it from talking, to keep down
every word
somewhere where I can’t remember
it: for
this, there’s no word. To me
you’re like
a machine without a purpose,
whose
purpose is to cast doubt on every
idea that
my mind is thinking, and
the end of
every idea is you.
On the edge of every slant of light, shadows seep through, casting darkness in a gentle way hardly seen by the average eye.
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