Words spill out of my mouth
tumble over the curve of my lower lip
and dance excitedly into the open air.
My hands are moving swiftly
shaping the atmosphere
and telling the ideas where to go
giving vowels and consonants a quick shove in the right direction.
(I've always been one to talk with my hands.)
I grin widely and crookedly
and laugh a little
because I love this topic
and I love you
and sometimes, just sometimes
I love life.
The party had ended, nothing to do but listen to silence
glitter on her sore and bitten lips still, she listened to silence.
She'd left the boy and he didn't know what to do with himself
anymore. He couldn't muster up tears, so he sat and listened to silence.
Taste of peppermint chewing gum in her mouth and the
woods quiet around her, she was happy as she listened to silence.
The poet sat in front of her computer, and observed the things
her heart sent fizzing to her fingertips, and she listened to silence.
She ran from it.
She ran from love for a long time, from those eyes, big and blue and fringed with mascara-thick lashes, from the thin vibrato of a happy heart humming with joy, from the laughter of a girl ringing out bright and clear in the summer air.
It scared her, so she hid, and buried herself under the useless baggage she'd accumulated over fifteen years, and she curled herself up, knees at her chin.
She didn't deserve to be happy, so she ignored the tremulous love that threatened to overwhelm her, a wonderful sickness that quivered inside of her and tried to spill out of her eyes and her fingertips and her mouth.
When her legs got