Shouts

The word "shout" has such intense implications -- that singular noun or verb can bring forth memories of broken parents, stir up mixed feelings of animosity, reverberate scenes from "Sister Act," and maybe even follow through with another duplicate of itself. I hear them now, two voices together in shout. Not shouting. Not even in heartfelt outbursts. But in shout, kind of like in love, but twisted and just as passionate. Why do people shout? Why must the selfishness we craft in craftiness be allowed to fester when it is so damn obvious that the rotting of pride and prejudice will poison and toxify our lungs, our fingertips, our cores? Without my fingertips, I cannot caress your face, lace my fingers into yours, and memorize the sneaky bumps on your chin. Without my lungs, it's so difficult to inhale your scent, so unfortunate to not be able to primitively recognize your presence. Why must we shout in shouts? Let's shout in whispers, in single tears, in wordless nothings, in smirks, and in love. Love. Not shout.