Shy
I fumbled through my pockets for a word to sayAnd when I finally found oneIt brushed past my fingertipsAnd slipped into the gaping holes in our conversation I know I should count my wordsBecause I don’t have any blessingsAnd I know I should chase themWhen they tumble from my lips But I don’t. Maybe that’s why my pockets seem so lightThey’re practically floatingOr why I’m so afraid of my fragile words catching in the windThat I never get to see them sail away Sometimes I stand under the cloudsMy arms outstretched to the skiesHoping that when it rainsAll the words that floated away will fall back down into my arms But they don’t.