bolt-lever fastened and secure
move forward, away in haste
in the belief that time traversed
correlated
with her voice erupting
breaking haphazard safety seals.
Falling like a fountain in my absence
her words come to strike the ground
dissolving rapidly, churning dirt to mud
splashing filth into my footprints
the sound of her jarring,
drowning my thoughts from afar.
Sprinting maddened and fevered,
I dive long and deep
in desperate bid to swallow the delgue,
to take it all within me
but the taste is wrong;
flat, sweet where was expected bitter, bubbly.
It dawns on me then
that though the name is the same
the wrong Sara has spoken.
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