funny that we
become stories in
other people's chests,
that we can spend days
weeks months years
centuries carving every
letter of every word that's
been spoken to us on the
inside of our ribs while
others are content to just
let the syllables fall in their
normal rhythms across their
lungs and no they wouldn't
mind if some of the words
caught on a bronchial tube
or two but it wouldn't be
the end of the world if
they didn't.