Physically, yes I can live without you.
I can eat, breathe, and sleep easily without you.
But if I’m not sharing half of a medium pizza with you, then I don’t want to eat.
And if I can’t feel your body move up and down as you breathe, I see no purpose in breathing.
And if I’m not waking up chest deep wrapped in your arms, then I don’t want to sleep.
This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.