to hear them

as beautiful as a photograph, the sounds of memories can be greater.
voices and murmurs. the imperfections.
to hide a tape recorder in my pocket, up my sleeve,
within reach for a mistimed story.
when tori's words slip into bursts of slurs and aspirations.
julianna's voice heightening to squeals.
listen to my past, a capsule of my present.
my father's quiet verbal abuse of the woman in spandex at baggage claim. lindsey's impersonations of her drugged up mother every day of high school. christin's over pronounced t's. caleb's quiet questions, the rarity of his laughter for thirsty ears.
to hold your whispers, your nonchalant words,
for a day when I need them.
car ride chatter, organic and fragile. the creaks of my house.
kendra's cooking. lindsay's fibs. laine's laughter. jacob's sarcasm. davey's cricket. my own apprehension.
like a snapshot of my youth, the sounds of each day shape what you and I see in me. and I want to lock them up in my mind, like a journal, an album, to keep hold on them. hold on hope that one day someone cares enough to appreciate and dote on them like I can.
a tape recorder to hide in my pocket, up my sleeve.
the breath between her speech, the lisp between his lips.