Maybe I should write, too.

I coach clients to become better wordsmiths, storytellers, listeners, writers. I tell them to bleed onto the page, hold nothing but your passive voice back; make me care and think and bleed, too. Words punctual as divine timing.

I do this, and I wonder if it’s some past life prayer that I become someone else’s rainbow.

Some past life prayer that says I have no opinion or voice, except when necessary to encourage the budding of another’s.

And if nothing is separate, no “you” or “I,” just “us,” as I believe, maybe the words belong to everyone; maybe it doesn’t matter who (o)pens them.

Walt Whitman is me, and I’m him, and the leaves of grass is where we go to toke up.

My heart aches in a physical way, not because I’m sad, but because there’s this real-life murmur, this human whisper that says, “The end is always near the beginning.”

This murmur showed up months ago, pitched a tent and stayed through Spring, because the weather inside was mostly warm, and sometimes, at night, if there were enough compliments or God-thoughts from the day, you could see the fireflies buzz and buzz and buzz.

I don’t know if breath makes it better, but I believe it does.

I don’t know if belief takes more breath, but I breathe anyway.