When we look at what is already spoken, the words cannot live if contained. Hope becomes all we want as our souls become awake in air unstained.
If we stop and count the words they become elusive and still hours later we remain unconscious. As if we are asleep exhaling each fragment unresponsive.
Can we wear our heart on the sleeve of our emotions to keep our body warm and moving? When do we realize where the point of here is beyond that which is soothing?
If we talk about that which we love giving our full attention to each dream as it exists. Would our laughter become a shade of secrets or a storm of words wrapped as a gift?