I can’t seem to get my mind off your
Browned apple bottom cheeks,
Once pinched by the hands of a sorcerer,
Who, while performing this sleight of hand,
Told you to read by yourself,
Because he doesn’t have time
For children's stories.
“I can become this sorcerer.”
You headed for a lake,
No, an ocean,
Because go big or go home, right?
Sprinkles of sunlight on the waves
Cascade and scatter over each other
Remind you of what the back of your eyelids look like
When you’re high as fuck
And you think of the times
Your father told you
What you could and could not do.
The bones of woolly mammoths
Can still cast shadows too.