And where do I live, if I’m a soul?

Am I in my eyes, the doors to perception, my windows to the physical world?

Or in my heart which beats and bleeds and aches and is broken and swells with love?

Do I live I my throat or lungs? I mean I talk so damned much, and I always feel the most alive when I sing.

How about my hands? These fingers that have created and destroyed, these palms that have pet so many soft cats.