Maybe being alive isn’t, What you do, Or who you are.

Maybe being alive is the warm breath escaping from your lips. The pump of blood you feel fill your body The cold burn in your lungs, The nerves in your stomach.

Falling and feeling, The scrapes on your knee. Icy rain on skin.

Maybe it’s really, The aching of a want The urge to lay in the grass, Your hair blowing in your face from the warm breeze.

The redness in your face as it is cooled by salty tears. The numb of your hands in the cold, Or the chocolate dripping down your chin. The feel of rough bark against bare skin.

The way we’re connected Is by experience. Not what you have, Or what you own, And sometimes, a feeling in itself, Can be home.