It will be like a whisper
of something familiar.
But you can never put your finger on it,
if it has been heard before
or correctly.

Over time, it will be wished
that it was written by yourself
because those words, profound and secret,
they feel so real.
You want them to burn into your skin,
but they’ve already burned unto my tongue.

You’ll want to touch the screen
as if it were me
and ask
how I can do this
to you,
to me.
Ask how I can breathe
how I can think
when this is mine
when it should be the world’s.

I will apologize
all nice and polite.
I will selfishly hide
my little thoughts.