Your words, plastered against a glowing white screen.
These words hold a passion,
A passion for the subject, currently,
In your hand.
And your mouth.
My eyes, fixated on every character,
Every space, every single punctuation,
As I see the passion,
Away from me.
And my voice.
A period marks the end of an enlightened analysis,
With a '(:' right after,
Showing some kindness but no care,
In your mind.
And your interest.
My words, beginning to dance in a chain,
Where lines begin to clump into a mess of a paragraph,
With passion filling every character and space,
From my heart.
And my hand.
Slowly taking the rein for my turn,
O