Hearing you, I try to listen, The words are forming in my mouth, but I hold them back in order to swallow yours. They taste of emotions that sometimes make no sense to me in the context you present, and yet I try to hear each word before forming a response or an opinion. It isn't easy because many of your words carry weapons and traps that I must duck or sidestep to avoid a parry that would escalate in an explosion of words at you with you against you even, for you. I listen. I process. The sounds have life of their own, colors of their own, sometimes meanings that they carry hidden within. Sometimes wearing the costume of other meanings that I must somehow see through to get to what you are really trying to tell me. Your words carry pain, yours sometimes and what you wish you could inflict on those who hurt you. But it is me, hearing and listening, who is the recipient, the urn where the ashes of your words are kept.
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