Think of all the things

that fill the spaces between

us:

Coy smiles,

Charged glances,

Painful slaps from

dripping tongues,

 

Hollow pangs of

red and the

blissful tempest of truly

seeing one

another.

I have a theory:

What if those things,

the things that ring

and ring and ring our

senses to alertness,

until

the little hairs on our

arms stick up were the

whispers of

those who were,

trying with all their might to

color our understanding of

what it means to be

alive and

 

the gift we give after

we stop being is

to connect

those who

are.