There is magic in literature,
And in the way words can dance,
That no matter how definitive,
And precisely their meanings are dissected,
Or what their etymology may dictate,
Much like the way your eyes,
Feel like a nebula,
Birthing new constellations,
Words, at times,
Manage to capture infinity,
In its own finite space,
There is magic in literature,
Much like how a book,
Can have only a single author,
But somehow have it a hundred,
Or even a million ways interpreted,
Almost as if it mimics the way,
I find your lips,
In the spaces between the ocean waves,
Or how i almost hear your voice,
In the warmth of every sunset rays,
There is magic in literature,
Like how they teach you at school,
Different figures of speech,
And have you remember their meanings,
And make you list their origins,
Metaphors, synecdoches,
Hyperboles and similes,
But then you discover later on,
Like a signature dish or potion,
How words magically fit,
With a single twist or whiff,
Like how in some way,
You feel like a poem,
Or how the thought of you,
Turns that poem into a song,
And no matter what meaning,
Webster or the Merriams say they have,
Words know no limits nor bounds,
Even when sewn together,
Or even held down on paper,
With an exact number of syllables,
And tied down methodically,
Into whichever literary structure,
They can have a different scent,
In each and every time you read them,
Like how I find it ineffable and awe-inspiring,
The way some words,
Do not phonetically have the same sound,
But still manage to rhyme,
Like your name and my heartbeat.
Like your name and my heartbeat.
