these houses are our tiny mansions, and we're framed behind their wrought iron fences. this mind is full of poetry but with nothing to write. i had an archived message of your voice across some ancient telephone wires "i'll be home soon" you'd say over and over without ever a change, even now when you're far from the same. when i erased it, where did it take your voice i wonder? can something just vanish forever, so quickly with such permanency? could i ever go find it, that small bit of you. find it between books on the library shelf, or maybe it's been buried in the dirt behind the lilacs out back, or embedded in the concrete and brick of our old school perhaps. maybe it's so far away that i would forget what i was searching for if ever i found it. wait, have i forgotten what i was searching for? what did i ever want to find, i am unsure.
