I could write my story
\npage by page,
\nitem by item,
\nand it would not tell you anything.
\nMy diaries lie,
\nmy homilies lie.
\nThey are all too self-absorbed,
\na sponge trying to swallow a sea,
\na madman who lost his childhood,
\nin search of his emptiness.
\nSo that is why I don\u2019t tell my story,
\nset it on a table
\nand cut it like bread,
\nbecause it doesn\u2019t exist,
\nit goes away as soon as it happens,
\nand leaves nothing behind.<\/p>\n
A postmark would do as well,
\na box to receive letters,
\nand letters that would never be read,
\nbut would lie in their darkness.
\nWhat then is my story?
\nWho comes to visit?
\nAnd I would tell you,
\nit is the heart of an apple,
\nthe fragrance of an orange,
\nthe tears of a child.
\nSomeone lost on a corner
\nwithout a street,
\na door to open,
\nsomeone to hold.
\nJust shadows,
\nand a street,
\napples and fragrances,
\nand an open pail for a heart
\ndipping up sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I could write my story page by page, item by item, and it would not tell you anything. My diaries lie, my homilies lie. They…<\/p>\n