my book is still a baby

To be the luxury of time.

To feel the kick of my own mind covering the possibility, the miles, before the day sinks into structure.

conceive of it in words

let it exit with the breath

and give it back to the world.

Sugar glazed fingers and puppy fat in the sudden bodies of children before they grow up too fast, and become all too big.

Leaving their insides with the impression of something that was, but will never be again.

The word “Magic” parts your teeth, and opens your mouth up as if you’re about to eat something really good.

Will I have enough todays to build my tomorrows? Will I have enough tomorrows despite my yesterdays?

A species of energy.

Day chasing the moon from its throne to better listen to your tale.

Honey. Its floral source, sage, coating my tongue; my wisdom something soft and unbothered in the morning light.