If I could divest myself of all the words that grew and bloomed
inside my chest, they'd run together like so many colored lights,
blending into something whiter than the whiteness of these pages.
Unreadable, they'd stand as testament to what is everything
and nothing, what is blank, and full of life.
And I could send these blank pages, pages full of words
and thoughts and deeds, but you or someone who looks like you
would only throw them away, recycle them, because
you couldn't see that I was leaving space for
all the words we'd still not had the chance to write.