I practice whispering

Crawling earthquakes are born of a thousand whispered truths. Picking out crimson apricots, bruising soft stones with my thumb. Walking down stiff concrete streets peeking around corners, wondering if a impish wind has curved my words. If anyone can hear a daring breath, humming lyrics never to be shared. I practice singing in an empty parking lot—there is a dandelion gathering his friends. I practice driving through the same cracked road you first showed me. I practice circling the roundabout and I keep practicing.