You're mine.
The words slip between thoughts
like fingers between ribs—
and I continue.
Shopping. Painting. Reading. Writing.
Pushing it aside.
Quiet. Not now.
But this thought
keeps slipping between moments—
this voice that isn't mine.
Come on.
I know you can hear me.
Yes.
I can.
I can hear my imagination
tying itself to delusion—
You laugh.
Or maybe that's me.
I don't …
