||if you want to, you can skip right to the end of this one|
because there are so many words in this sonnet that i
don't need, so i'm just going to waste them all away, love,
and let my hands type what they will while i think of nothing.
nothing but your sweet voice and the life it carries, but i
won't even write about that, instead i'll just keep writing
about how i'm not writing about anything at all -
maybe sing you a song: "i like your smile and your fingertips..."
i'll do that because i don't need fourteen lines, i don't
need one hundred and ninety six syllables and i
don't need however many letters there could possibly
be, because there's not that much that's important enough to
write about - all i need to say everything that matters
is ten simple words: we are the ones who know why there's a moon.
Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien