I remember crayons --
the big box
with 96 colors,
most of which no one
has ever heard of.
I would open the box
and just sit there and stare.
I never colored with my crayons;
they lost their potency
if I did that.
I would just stare
at this box of
perfectly sharpened sticks of wax
and imagine all the things
I could create.
I stare now
at a blank piece of paper
and wonder how I can draw
so you will see.
This, I don’t do for you.
I do this because my mother smiled.
Because I once saw
the most perfect sunrise,
standing in the ocean
at four o’clock
on a November morning.
I want you to feel the waves
roll numbingly around your knees,
but you won’t really notice,
because the ocean is
on fire in front of you.
I want you to feel
how he holds me,
his arms wrapped
around my body
as though I were the last
stable thing on Earth.
I want you to hear his voice --
dark chocolate over cigarette smoke --
as he tells me I’m beautiful
in such a way that I know
he believes it.
When he looks at me,
I can believe that
I can create anything.
I’m falling into his mahogany eyes,
AND I want to trace those eyes
on my paper
and give a copy
to each one of you,
because everyone should know
what it feels like
to be looked at like that,
at least once in their life.
I know, I’ve accomplished nothing.
But if even one of you
can see what I see
as I color outside the lines,
then I’ve conquered the world.
And I know that
sunrises are best when
begun at 4 AM,
standing in the ocean
in November.
I know that magic lies
not in another realm,
but in the words I write,
and what I create.
And I know this because
when he touches me,
I remember crayons.