my book is still a baby

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

And

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

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.

Tempting lives into this world.

A species of energy.

The earth, like my body, hums.

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

I wait for the moments when another tells me ”it’s like nothing else.”

Gladly, do I fall headlong into those territories that steal a breath and give back awe.