Poetry is air. Poetry is survival. Poetry brings me out of bed in the morning. You were poetry when you spoke last night. Poetry was the charm and the words and the wit. Poetry was the feeling, the expectation, the need. Poetry was the water, the inevitablility, the fatigue. Poetry was the abandonment, the heart-stripping, the quick goodbye. Poetry is hearing no word, no message, no silence more telling than this. Poetry is wordless, lineless, nothingness. One day, this existence will be poetry. This poetry is poetry. Poetry is the curse and the blessing.