When I was young, did I even listen to me?
Sometimes I heard and sometimes I listened to some, and sometimes to me.
I heard and tucked far back, because it hurt to listen, to hear.
And now in the stillness of the nights, I listen and observe.
The words are soft, and the silent movements fill the words in greater ways.
They shuffle in some days, and I see so many words in their eyes.
The words fall from my pens, and the letters seem to be to me,
or written to someone who once was me.
Who is there left to read these words today?
Do they care?
Do I care today?
I do care, and I write these words for me and for my sons.
And for sons and daughters I know, but miss most days.
Where are they today?
The words press on me in these…