CXXXIII.

Take your heart out from behind those bed sheets that you have strung up to hide it. Set it out on the table while we talk. Next to these two short glasses that we're drinking from. Water in yours, whiskey in mine. Tell me what you're scared of. Tell me about that trailer park in your imagination that you're always writing about. Tell me about the words that keep your heart running. Moving like a small machine in your chest. Wheels and gears and days and salt. What sound are you? What does a breeze in one's soul translate to here? Search me the way only your eyes can and read me the way only your words do.