We Never Spoke

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We never spoke. 
The cereal box was our natural barrier. 
I just enjoyed the back of the box, 
and he regretted reading the news.  

We never spoke. 
He would come home and head straight to the makeshift office. 
I would seal my thoughts in the baseball glove 
that remained dormant for months.  

We never spoke. 
We would have holidays filled with smiles, 
but he only showed disgust for our heightened volume; 
he regretted such a large family.  

We never spoke 
until I was much older, 
but we never brought up the past. 
We would simply trade stale conversation 
like we left the cereal box open too long. 

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