I hoard words
gather them up, uneven – watch them spill over
dribble as they want down my chin
possessive, I am – jealous and cheap
an angry guardian
keeper of what is mine to give
but you own the words I whisper to no one
growing drunk on your image, drawn in the dark
a colourised memory, you live on the ceiling,
no, you hover over the page:
just a thought, just a thought
AIMEE TACON 
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