You are the middle of August,
the product of a seasoned summer right before the cold returns.
You are the last chapter of everyone's favorite book:
a hesitant read for fear of an ending, yet all too inviting.
You are the sound of a soft rain's patter against the window
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
You are the familiar smell of a mother's home-cooked meal.
You are the purples and pinks in the sunset
and you are the reflection of colors on the water.
You are sleeping in until 3pm with nowhere to be.
You are the grin on a middle-schooler's face
when the girl at the dance says yes.
You are the first glass of water to a hangover.
You are the dream that disappointed minds
try to reenter when they awaken.
You are the feeling of freshly cut grass on bare feet.
You are the feel-better kiss
for every cut, scrape, bruise, or bump.
You are the excitement in a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
You are the first ray of light to peak
from behind the clouds every morning.
You are the feeling of new socks.
You are looking at the moon
when you can swear he’s looking back.
You are the glow from the top of the lighthouse,
guiding sailors home from sea.
You are a memorable conversation with a stranger on the bus,
haunting and ending far too soon.
You are hiding out in a tree after dinner,
imagining belonging to the branches deriving from its core.
You are the joyful “God bless you”
proclaimed by a man on the corner asking for a dollar.
You are a hand to hold when sidewalks are slippery.
You are the warm voice emanating from the warm smile
on a frore wintry night.
You are the comfort of “goodnight”
from a lover’s lips just inches away.
You are the loyalty of a dog when his soldier returns home.
You are the fireflies in a mason jar,
flashing light through a dark room.
You are the best line in the song on repeat.
You are the laugh lines that years of smiles
sketched into the face of an old man.
You are every last bit of good and pure and magic in the world.
And you don’t even know it.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
You are the middle of August,
the product of a seasoned summer right before the cold returns.
You are the last chapter of everyone's favorite book:
a hesitant read for fear of an ending, yet all too inviting.
You are the sound of a soft rain's patter against the window
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
You are the familiar smell of a mother's home-cooked meal.
You are the purples and pinks in the sunset
and you are the reflection of colors on the water.
You are sleeping in until 3pm with nowhere to be.
You are the grin on a middle-schooler's face
when the girl at the dance says yes.
You are the first glass of water to a hangover.
You are the dream that disappointed minds
try to reenter when they awaken.
You are the feeling of freshly cut grass on bare feet.
You are the feel-better kiss
for every cut, scrape, bruise, or bump.
You are the excitement in a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
You are the first ray of light to peak
from behind the clouds every morning.
You are the feeling of new socks.
You are looking at the moon
when you can swear he’s looking back.
You are the glow from the top of the lighthouse,
guiding sailors home from sea.
You are a memorable conversation with a stranger on the bus,
haunting and ending far too soon.
You are hiding out in a tree after dinner,
imagining belonging to the branches deriving from its core.
You are the joyful “God bless you”
proclaimed by a man on the corner asking for a dollar.
You are a hand to hold when sidewalks are slippery.
You are the warm voice emanating from the warm smile
on a frore wintry night.
You are the comfort of “goodnight”
from a lover’s lips just inches away.
You are the loyalty of a dog when his soldier returns home.
You are the fireflies in a mason jar,
flashing light through a dark room.
You are the best line in the song on repeat.
You are the laugh lines that years of smiles
sketched into the face of an old man.
You are every last bit of good and pure and magic in the world.
And you don’t even know it.
