You told me I never took my shoes off. You said I slept with them in my feet. But how couldn’t you see that not only did I take my shoes off but I took the laces off too. I washed the soles of my shoes. I wrapped them in silk papers and put in a box, that I put on the highest self.

See, I didn’t expect you to notice it all. I didn’t tell you I did it. But I did it in your plain sight. Under your eyes, in your hearsight. You didn’t see my shoes in the halfway, because there’s nothing in me waiting to leave. I put them away and above. Yet you told me I still have them in my feet. But my feet are bare. How can’t you see that.