disculpe, butyou remind me of a housei kept in San Juan, all open doorswith
that same sound to their hinges.
i still hear them, voicesacross the ocean, stare too longat what i left behind, fold paperinto envelopes, and sailchange until i return.
tengamos que limpiarour mouths every once ina while to make room for oursanity, but i left home too,feet staggering from my tongue.
your words look just like a clumsyleaving Kendrick, pobrecito, no haymucho tiempo.
Pero, what choice did we have?