I cannot say it as well as you. Why do I keep trying? Eloquence escapes me. Flightiness is more my game and what was profound and touching just a moment ago becomes blasé and immature.
But I keep writing. Because these words are me. They are my body. They are my fingers, my elbows, my legs. They move me just as much as I move and shape them. I form sentences and sentences form me. Words keep me alive.
I’ll let you speak beautifully. I’ll read your words and your beauty will make me feel beautiful too. And I’ll let this mishmash pour from my hands and walk away. Its cleansing.