"I'm running out of inspiration." She mustered a sigh out of her empty soul and thumped the pen against the collection of papers.

"No, you're not. There are millions of pieces of inspiration around you this very second." I cheekily smiled. She rolled her eyes and brushed her fingers through her hair, only for her pinky to get tangled in her locks.

"Ouch! And no, there really isn't. Name one piece of inspiration around us this very second that you think I can use."

"You."

"Me? I'm confused. How am I an inspiration to my own writing?"

"Love, you are a poem that breathes. Steal some of your soul just enough so that you can capture it in the essence of jumbled and crystallized letters onto a thin slice of tree. Remember not to steal too much, for then you will lose your own identity in the realms of pages that can possibly be in the hands of those who will use your secrets against you."

"Who taught you to be so eloquent with the way words spill out of your lips?"

"I once read a poem that breathed." I let the words sink into the air and tumble down the oxygen molecules until they slowly clicked in her brain and a tiny, tiny smile painted itself on her lips.

   "Oh, you."