Questions are souls taken shape
Screaming out for someone to put them to form in a way that might breed understanding.

You can look at someone and see the color of who they are,
The spirit of them,
The soul,
But the tragedy of man
Is that you’ll never be able to paint a perfect picture of your own.

I ask questions all the time.
Selfish questions,
Ones that put color on my skin
And warm my bones.

“Do you love me?”

I hold my breath, your response suddenly the difference between life and death

Even though the answer has been uttered countless times before and no doubt will be said countless again

That is the power of a question.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes”