The Mystery Books

This is a new poem I wrote, and it might be used as a Mystery Books song soon.

Sorrow Speaks

In India

we used to lay
down in the shades
as we shared our melancholies;

we conversed
with our heads
on our laps,

maintaining eye contact.

Now we speak, but
don’t listen.
Our lips open
and close, but there’s too
much noise.

My eyes wander
and you walk
snoring loudly.