within something, something else flowers

An old story is playing, one about the sun and a boy. It’s one that you heard many times and one that still makes your heart squeeze  the memory of small, clumsy hands and a bright smile and the lazy warmth of a sun of a november day washing everything in soft gold 

On the stage, the curtain flows like wings and you remember how you tried to make wings once and it was a complete surprise but the shrill sound of joy made the disaster feel like perfection 

there’s photo tucked in your pocket that’s twenty years old you take it out with wrinkled fingers and smile,  heart full of something that you can’t put a name to yet 

It’s a wonder how much passes, isn’t it?

Before long, it will be november and there’s that same bright smile and you trying to make that same wings out of curtains but  instead of  small hands there’s are much larger (perhaps even more than yours) but they are still as clumsy as before and the wings turn to be a distaster 

but the laughter of joys and the photo captured makes it looks like the most beautiful thing