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

conclusion. 

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

infinitive.

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.