A Noun Needs a Verb

Even the shortest sentence
has two simple needs: a noun,
a verb. A basic formula for
endless chance 
to build or deconstruct
any infinite version of reality.

Always, always
two basic elements to complete
a thought. Noun, verb.
Separated, even maintaining meaning,
it's partial. 
A piece missing, an idea -- dangling. 
But when connected, there's satisfying
Resolution, understanding. 

     I am a noun. 
     A person first,
     often a place
     and sometimes a thing.
     I give you context. 
You are a verb, all
movement and action and
Giving, trying, being.
You offer action, you
provide purpose. 

Joined, we turn fragments into sense.
We share words with similar intentions
but different executions.
Words like: 
     Shelter. A place; to protect.
     Love. Affection; to feel deeply.
     Peace. A state of quiet; to calm.

I am, you are
noun, verb -- together, whole.
It's that simple, that complex.
Two elements, part of one.
We are complete, 
necessary, complimentary.

You don't fit into sentences.

You don't fit into sentences. 
It's untidy to contain you between a
bracket of punctuation;
                              You run on. 
I imagine you nervous when contained,
stuck before such finite constraints as a period.
You need space -- room to slip over syllables
or sprawl across ellipses ... 
You don't see a question mark as a silent end,
but an invitation to begin.
You are rambling words strung together
quickly, breathlessly, carefully, continuously -- 
a sound that begs energy and holds attention.
You wait for correction, unafraid to be called a mistake. 
You stand a challenge for any red pen to revise. 
I can't imagine an edit that would do you justice,
that would reel you in so that you'd fit within
the rules of this language. 
You don't fit into sentences. 
You are a series of stories, being written still.

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