I am small but I contain multitudes, I am not a poet but I shelf poetry away in little boxes of meaning. I am not a storyteller but I carry stories, if you will listen, I can tell you of women who sat in silence while their husbands talked, of letters that were never written, of friendships that never had a name. I can tell you how rain falls on the edges of window sills and brimming bowls and on the roofs of yellow taxis by the station, of corner cafe coffee plans that both forgot and of all the things left unsaid and of forgotten faces from other lives that stick to back of your eyelids and reappear in your dreams. But I could never tell you what any of it means. I am not a storyteller, I only have a pretty way with words. Every time I try to touch something outside of my head it slips away, words never mean anything. But then, what does it matter, who is to say we are not important, with our silly little loves and losses and no-name friends. Our little lives with us inside of it, in all its enormity, can never be contained. Life goes on and on and on.
