Osbert Was The Only One Who Didn't

When You Read A Book, The Neurons In Your Brain Fire Overtime, Deciding What The Characters Are Wearing, How They're Standing, And What It Feels Like The First Time They Kiss. No One Shows You. The Words Make Suggestions. Your Brain Paints The Pictures.

I've Noticed That The Magic Getting Along With Someone Isn't Really Magic. If You Break It Down, You Can See How It Happens. You Say Something A Bit Off-center And See If They React. If They Get It, They Push It A Bit Further. Then It's Your Turn Again. And Theirs. And So On, Until It's Banter. Once It's Banter, It's Friendship.

A Piano Might Fall On Your Head, He Said, But It Also Might Not. And In The Meantime You Never Know. Something Nice Might Happen.

I Guess There Was A War Going On Somewhere In The World That Night But It Wasn't One That Could Touch Us.

And Still The Brain Continues To Yearn, Continues To Burn, Foolishly, With Desire. My Old Man's Brain Is Mocked By A Body That Still Longs To Stretch In The Sun And Form A Beautiful Shape In Someone Else's Gaze, To Lie Under A Blue Sky And Dream Of Helpless, Selfless Love, To Behold Itself, Illuminated, In The Golden Light Of Another's Eyes.