Life is too short to worry about the words we speak and how they’ll be interpreted,
or the collisions we create in the palms of our hands,
because it doesn’t matter what we’ve touched or what we said,
because we are all just specks on a rock.
Insignificance and existence,
they tend to flow together like waves crashing on the beach shore,
or tidal waves roaring in my eardrum,
but it doesn’t really matter because nothing does.
We pretend sadness isn’t familiar.
There is a false correlation
that those who talk the most are the most bold,
that those who don’t are timid and shy.
I could speak mountains of nothings
compared to the oceans some have given me.
There’s depth in some vocabulary
that the volume of my words
will never amount to.
You are allowed, and even encouraged, to yell,
because your footprints on this planet seem small to the universe,
and your voice is but a breath of wind.
I wish we didn’t pretend that sadness was unfamiliar.