Everything
can be put into words, except the delicate things, sometimes
words can’t do them justice — the feelings of
inadequacy late at night, the way your chest actually aches when
he’s gone, the way she looks at you from across the table
that causes you to forget other people exist in the room —
those are things simple words strung together cannot do. Those
are poetry, never written only lived, because to attempt to
capture and imprison them within a sentence would be a terrible
disservice to human nature.
