...of the lunar alphabet by Leandro Katz and this is what happened to my head, my heart and my hand. Straight off from my little notebook. Not much sense. Not much meat. But a fascinating process of how a picture and some words can start a process of wanting to get something out there.
Words. All we have. All we own. All we shared. All you gave me.
Give me your words and they are forever spoken. Give me your words. You can never take them back. The power of the phonemes you put together. The phrases you create. The language you use. Your words were not in print, yet they were scrabbled down inside my book. The book I never open. The book I cannot read.
Yes you gave me your words. Small fragments of uttered sincerity. Or dishonest. Who am I to know if I interpreted them correctly? An I. A you. Somewhere we. Did I make it into my own poetry? Share. Together. Hands and future. Love. And love. And can. And cannot. Did I write my own story with the words you gave me?
Did I not understand the language you spoke? Could you not control the small pieces of meaning that you let out, that you left hanging in the air we shared? The fragments. The yes. The no. Did we not mean them the same way? Did I only pick and choose?
How did I end up with an empty notebook? A blank sheet of paper. Nothing recorded. Numbers on a screen. Ones. Zeros. Can I even read them now? Where are the phonemes you once gave me? Combined into words. Created into sentences. Spoken to me. Interpreted by me. The sound of your voice.
Never again. Never the same. The words that you gave me do no longer exist.