Passing names

In all the passing names I’ve been called
I’ve never been called that
That little something that lingers on the lips
Chips by the tip of your tongue
Touch it, but never quite make it
Like food that you can taste without sustenance
Because you hate the fact that you can’t swallow
What deep down in the pit of your stomach, under the vine leaves,
Might be called the truth

 


Ben

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