So much is lost in language, something I remember every time I fail to describe your eyes.  Maybe words are just the reality of life, truth without all the romanticism, but I can't help thinking that everything looks worse in black and white.  The newspaper tells me about the **** that happened down the street, but the printed words can't describe the woman's screams as she was pierced in a way that will forever leave a scar.  It doesn't give us the vindictive sense of power that the monster walked away with, still uncharged and roaming the streets.  Words can't breathe life onto paper, but that doesn't stop us from trying to make a body out of ink.  Something to hold close at night when sobs are held in and rib cages are sore.