Without your voice, it’s too quiet,
only my thoughts can resonate in these walls.
The cauldron is boiling over and the carrots are too hard,
and you’re upstairs, because it’s too quiet.
You had a dream that I was speaking to a pile of clothes,
a ghost inside them, while you watched.
And then you said you were too afraid to tell me,
because you knew the terror would haunt me.
Is this terror haunting me,
while the carrots and celery burn?
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