intuitive, like poetry. that’s how i want my days to feel. not that i’ve touched poetry recently. it used to be intuitive. i’m out of practice probably. i haven’t tried in recent memory. i… i honestly don’t remember the last time. that’s not right, is it?

intuitive. like a heart-piercing song unfolding. a child’s path through an august playground. a dancer’s feet in a drunken crowd. your hands tracing lines on a lover’s back. intuitive. natural. instinctive. movement like breathing.

“love is all about timing. it’s no good meeting the right person too soon or too late.”

i used to have this notion, a preconceived notion that love should be intuitive; it should fall into place with ease and grace. but i’m a little bit older now, and i’ve learned through my own life and the lives of others… love is a fucking mess. it’s a calamity the likes of which couldn’t have been imagined by the afflicted individuals. the trembling hands of chaos assembling a snowflake. a beautiful accident waiting to happen. and often, it doesn’t. and sometimes only for a few moments.

and that’s the magic, really. that people share these imperfect moments of warmth, few and far between though they might be.

and then it’s gone.

or it passes before you realize it’s leaving your grasp.

just like that. as suddenly as the possibility appears, it fades. or eventually, you just let go. of the daydream. of the fantasy. of the warmth, real or perceived. and the magic is relegated to fond memories. poetry fodder. single grains of salt fusing to a kernel of hope that one day magic will sprout again in gardens we have yet to set foot.