words

sifting through scribbled up napkins and scraps of paper--envelopes, phone numbers, love letters to the asshole neighbors. some nights they keep me company, other nights they just keep me up: chattering, bawdy from their quiet shanty in the back of my notebook. every page should be twice as heavy. do my words like each other? are big words pigeons, and small words sparrows? i wonder if i should leave bread crumbs between the pages, let my words fight and peck, see which ones survive. in the spring time, words like "forever" and "blooming" puff up their chests and fan their tails out on the ground, spinning and crooning, trying to impress other words, like "soak" and "rot" words that run off into the grass or fly away, uninterested. if words don't eat, they'll die--but if i feed them too much, they just shit everywhere. they're impossible to train, they act like they don't know me, but i still like them very much. their dumb eyes and silly smiles. stupid, shitty, lovable words.