Passion

            Talk. 
            It's easy to believe in until it's gone missing.  I don't write because I haven't started and, therefore, can't.  But the words are down and they don't stop.  We find ourselves writing the names of our friends and colors to fill the perpetual emptiness ahead.  Fill in the void until we trip across the uprooted sidewalk and remember how beautiful the trees are.  Green, like us. 
            We spend our nights on the porch whispering lyrics to the night.  Remember when you found yourself in the dark?  You danced at the moon in a salutation to chaos. 
            We praise the sun for creating such beautiful clouds.  We praise Tumblr for helping us believe pizza is all-powerful.  Remember when you wanted to drive for hours?  Maybe you did.  You listened to the radio until it was all late-night talk, and you rolled down the windows and listened to the cold air.  You went too fast.  You got lucky. 
            We sit in rooms alone, waiting for inspiration that usually forgets to show.  We write swear words and draw our faces in steamy mirrors, laughing before we rub it away.  Remember when you stayed up all night?  You watched the sunrise.  It was disorienting.  You just wanted to sleep, but you crossed your arms against the chill with your eyes wide. 
            We talk around people, and sometimes it turns into talking to them.  Sometimes they hear.  Sometimes we hear too.
            We watch and listen for quiet and bottle it up.  Kiss the glass before we go to bed.  Wait for a particularly normal day to break it on the streets and fall into the passion pit.
            It is new white linen in sticky heat.  Sun-washed wood and broken windows.  Wind in the grasses and stalled singing.  It is red in our eyes and red in our hands.  And we will crawl for it.  We will dance for it.