Magic

How come in the middle of the night I can’t see the stars?

Isn’t that what makes the world beautiful, the dark bearable, the seas trackable, is seeing what guides us forward?

Isn’t it the point of the night, to see the little white gaseous mysteries God Himself painted on the black canvas for us to see?

Maybe it isn’t the stars we’re supposed to be looking at.

Maybe it’s the shine in your lover’s eyes when you tell every inch of skin on their body you love them,

Or the shiver when a heart breaks,

The cry of joy in a wife’s eyes when her husband returns from war.

Maybe we’re supposed to look into the ones next to us with the same wonder and Fervor that Galileo had when seeking his destiny in the world around him,

Or DaVinci’s passion inside his madness that made some of the most beautiful works known to man today that you’d pay millions for

Maybe today you should pay attention not to the sky and what’s included,

But into the eyes of the one next to you as they spill their colors onto your lap

And you tell me

That those colors aren’t beautiful.