Died last night.
The day was gone.
Little things done will come back a little bigger tomorrow.
How to explain to J or L that the sparkle never wears off. The delight does not wane.
It only intensifies, if anything.
Perhaps because death nears.
And not because of any “achievements” or any momentous passages.
It sparkles just because you notice the sparkly bits more.
The wise, grown man attunes to the wild beauty of the every day.
The wings of orange and black. The butterfly shadow beneath the dog’s nose.
The bones she turns up.
A smile across a table with beers.
The redish plump of lips that wonder at the thoughts of the other, anticipating the next facial expressions.
Words flying around like dodging ping-pong balls. Some understood, some not.
All bubbly and bouncy.
Semi-objects launched about just to laugh at.
Popping out for goofs and reflection.
Mirror sounds to mirror face.
Bright white highlights within the huge, brown glowing eyes.
Worlds within worlds.
A trap of self recognition.
Somewhere safe in a wide expanse of air and spaced-out particles.
A charge of a person.
Rooted in the light, shining on the surface of an eyeball.
Who made this up?
Dreaming of the dreamer.