words

when you speak out loud, the words tumble over the rim of your conscience, float before your face for a moment, and then pop like bubbles into the air around you, gone forever, they may have left without being heard by anyone else, or they may have been inhaled and tasted by everyone else in the room,
exhaled and swallowed.

when you write words, ink makes them eternal, paper catalyzes them into everything you meant them to be. they are felt by everyone, even if they are read by no one, and you carry them around in bursting pockets and huge baskets of lined paper and napkins soaked with moments and lovers and time. you keep them all, catalogues of loyalty or legitimacy that you pull through the day at your feet, or bluster out before you in a flurry of importance. written words are permanant and they have a heaviness to them, no matter how small the print or insignificant the writer.