We throw stardust into the atmosphere and breath deeply in the cold morning air to watch our breath fade off into the distance, a vapor, like our very existence.
The words get caught in the back of our throats and our emotions are tied up in our hearts.
We walk the dusty roads at night out to see the stars and feel like vulnerability of being alone and alive.
There is such a delicate line between alone and lonely and it gets crossed all the time, a wobbly drunk walking the white line at the side of the road, veering in and out of the boundaries of human versus traffic.
The texture of tree bark, all it's rough lines and ridges and the way it feels when I'm leaned up against it with a head full of ideas that don't even make sense, phone ringing in my pocket and "Oh my God" is the only sentence that will come out, said in a whispered tone of awe.
Desperate need to pinch yourself awake, only to realize with a slow shake of your head that this is all, in fact, reality.
As the days fill in and get checked off on my calendar, and I get older and only marginally more wise, I worry that there are feelings that words will never attach themselves to.
The idea scares me.