They speak to me in whispers,
These voices that I can never get rid of.
They hold truth that I can find so readily available,
They mean nothing because their truths are only to them.
In the late afternoon hours, the questions build.
More letters to be written and sent to lovers
That will open them when their tired eyes need to be dried.
The world moves on, with a soundtrack that will last millennials.
Things will grow and things will shrink just like drift wood,
Left in the spring rains.
Alas my time here is done.
Time to return home.
Maybe I live under a roof for too long,
But a month is a long time.

Time well spent.