The first time a word’s impressed on my ear, it might leave a mark but never a mold. It takes a second listening for that sculpting to hold, but even then I’ll buckle my tongue before repeating the thing.
So what can I say if I get weird because you held my hand? I’ve counted by paned streetlight each vertebra stacking you together.
Not once, but twice.
I didn’t mean to remember everything you said to me. I just can’t let it go, not now, not yet, because maybe someday I’ll need this, and I’d rather count a third time in the dark than tell you that someday’s today.
Nature hates waste, anyway.