Incomplete

You speak, I’m spoken. But why do you speak? Aren’t you, too, searching for yourself? Aren’t you, too, incomplete? Then let your unhomeliness be my home, so long as you keep speaking. Let me die by your word so I can live by your word. For wordless in my own stammering is the hole and the hole is worse than death. But I drift in and out of you by the moment, listen and turn away, understand and lose track as the hole opens under me.

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