and when i sing, i sing in a small voice, a soothing voice, a light voice. a hurt voice. whispering versus from someone else’s past, and sobbing to the sound of their pain. glimpses, and nothing more, of the flesh beneath the shirt. i can’t hold you more. considering how to put this: staying away doesn’t necessarily mean neglection; losing yourself in a honey glaze of happy glee is a possibility too. the inspiration seems pretty numb when it’s unnoticed.
