I have drafted paragraphs — paragraphs of vocabulary that I have once listed vertically with a blunt pencil on scrap paper at the back of my old notepad, vocabulary that describes you and I and all that is in-between.
I have drafted paragraphs — sentences that string those words like pearls on chains so delicate. The words looked right on bullet-pointed lists that ran down 20 rows, but for some reason were all wrong when I tried to add in the verbs and adverbs and nouns to fill in the spaces. (Maybe, there needs to be spaces.)
I have drafted paragraphs — paragraphs with spaces and commas and punctuation all over. Paragraphs with sentences that no longer ran one after another, paragraphs that now gave us room to breathe. The spaces gave me time to think, they gave me time for my stomach to flip, for my head to spin, for my vision to focus. The commas gave me time to catch my breath after you've continuously taken it away.
I have drafted paragraphs — they got lengthier as I went on and no longer ran in perfect order, in fact nothing about them were perfect (and everything about you, was.)