My “How are you?” means tell me everything
If you ever found yourself sore, I have here a bandage to release your discomfort.
I heard you scream amid a horde of people; you couldn’t run for you are not proud — the straw in your hand is the only thing you can grasp, but it created a timid sound on the tiles that made you gasp.
You thought no one could see you; you thought the word “help” couldn’t set you at liberty until you finally dropped your disguise, for the location went silent and saw me enter, alarming the door chains with a new straw that I superbly styled.
It takes no injected blood to be kind. So don’t get in a flap if you think I will be waiting for a return of favor. Just communicate with a sense of purpose because your “I’m okay” means you’re really not.
Tell me about your day.
Tell me about your feelings.
Tell me if you need me.
Leave a stain on my shirt with your tears, and I still won’t tell you you’re dramatic.
My lips will give a smack to your mark on the glass because I want to have a taste with your own water, which is a mix of soda, tea, and wine — a water that is indifferent, for above all the melting ice dripping from your face, I have my senses that can make you.
I have my arms to grant you a hug and hold you with gentleness.
I have my eyes to see your soul lip-syncing complex stories.
I have my ears to pay attention to the words you want me to combine.
You have me.