Words, come to me. I've looked back. I know you're there waiting to rise to the surface. I'll be patient. I'll wait for you; I'll coax you. I'll read to you, listen to you, file you away, carry you in my heart. You keep yourselves tucked away in a variety of places, waiting for me to connect with you. I know that you want me to find you and I will–I do. I find you every moment of my life. It's just that you have a life of your own, too, and I have to listen to you rather than mold you right away. You want me to get you out first, spill it all out and once your satisfied that I've poured you all out, then I am free to take you like a raw piece of clay and study you, use my hands to shape you, use my eyes and ears to hear you, my nose to pick up on the nuances that my other senses will fail to pickup alone.
Some of you will never make it to the page.
And then–we start the process all over again, everyday–until death do we part.