On Words

I love how words, syntax, and the stringing along of letters to create a banner of streaming meaning can make me believe in anything. Can make me believe in love. In love again. And I’ve seen the numbers. I know the odds. And maybe it’ll never be about me. And maybe the essays or poems or tiny notes dancing with doodles on a paper’s edge will never be drafted with my name in mind. But I believe. And love, this way, feels like magic. Real magic; no smoke and mirrors. But I’ll buy a ticket to the rabbit-in-hat show and I’ll suspend disbelief. And, like a child, I’ll play pretend. Pretend it’s about me. Pretend it’s real. The bed used to be a pirate ship. And my one eye never saw carpet, but lava. And yeah, it was pretend, but it felt like magic. Let the words saw my body in half, making crowds gasp. I’m still alive.