Between your fingers
I exist;
in your stolen smile
my resentment loses all meaning;
counting the moments of your bad moods
I select the hours of my well-being.
If no one in this world
wants to understand me, no harm...
at least, let them not misunderstand.
I send word of my illness,
touch you through old envelopes.
Sometimes I long to know so much...
are you well?
how weary is your body?
I am not foolish—
in truth, I am voiceless.
Wordless, not witless
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