By Thomas Page

I know the voice in my head but can’t describe it well.

It accompanies me wherever I read

And fills in the empty silences with reflection

Like a fax machine chugging along in this day and age

Sitting by a summer window

Thinking of the birds and the leaves swaying in the breeze

Printing a message from zip codes away.

I’d like to think that he and I are the same

But sometimes I get the impression that we are not

Because we tend to disagree on certain things.

Not that I am his Jekyll

But it seems that I am sometimes him

And I am sometimes me

Like the grue found in the reflected water.

He never seems to sleep except when it’s inconvenient

Like when I have to talk

Or give an answer on demand.

I envy him sometimes,

Because the part of me always on vacation

And can truly be himself

As he thinks about whatever comes his way.

Maybe with a fruity-drink in his hand

Watching the sunset

Running his feet through the sand.

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