The Theory of Not Quite Everything

Slightly interrupted pacing and rhyming

I have a theory about how people are made. 

Ichor with caffeine and saltwater, cigarette smoke and air, raw late night bawlings, morning chuckles dyed pink, curled eyelashes and hair; 

crooked teeth and lopsided grins, blood and bone, sticks and stones, words and spilled ink. Add some black and blue, to form the premature bruises underneath the epidermis that will form

so tenderly soon,

Throw in a song and a note or two, to echo their first sound

their first scarring battle cry through the night

their first lie

The sigh that comes 

in with waves and exits as vapour

to pour in another day

upon another shore

where another baby

is born.