The words are there,
suspended in front of my
eyes and yours,
to be read and
to be written.
Their curves around the drip
drops of rain
on the concrete,
they crash to
become one
but only become many
as the ink from their words
flood the cracked road
with a pure pitch.
They have spilled from our lips,
and have run their course
and have carved their ledges
and cliffs into our rock-slide
lives,
and settled
to be written
before they have been spoken.