yours- a soft touch of a mirror.
Smart handy, ready to fly, to show the river how to blink in the sun. The lips how to smile. The eyes how to dream. The heart how to listen.
You’re magic, your spells of fury, cash and pure desire rotten my fears away and gave me awakining sunshine, up there, on the clips, fully drunken of the earliest lines of golden sunshine. Not warm jet but softer as anything else can ever be.
Saying nothing gave me answers to all my questions and now, with your dope in my feet I feel alive enough to tell you: yeah Peter Pan was born on east LA but he never forgot how it felt when his mother always loved him.
My dear. Your fingertips are magic spells. Your words more than anyone ever can either imagine nor expect. You’re pure.