I will seek your hands in the raindrops, which dissolve into me, when my pulse surges sudden— to run, run and run... madly, wildly! I will seek your breath in the hot wind, and your lips in the bright morning; to ignite myself in dreams and heights ...to a tempest of feelings and secrets. I will seek your laughter in the day of weariness, your voice—in a piano's chord... I will hunt for magic in a red sunset— to bring it to my night when loneliness weighs. In the thin-woven moonbeams, I will seek love and tenderness, I will search for the warmest, sweetest eyes, turned in an instant to eternity. Even if you're only a tear meant for me, behind which a heavy star hangs like a curtain, I will look for you again in the cold darkness, and I will ask softly, always—Where are you?—as I long for you!
# The Magic <p>There is magic in the morning light, when the sun spills gold across the grass— a sleight of hand, the world remade, and we, half-awake, half-believers, walk through it like a trick half-understood.</p> <p>There is magic in the way her name falls from my lips, a spell I've cast a thousand times, each syllable a small enchantment, each breath a door opening to elsewhere.</p> <p>There is magic in the ordinary— in rain that knows the secrets of the earth, in bread that rises without asking why, in the space between two heartbeats where anything, still, might happen.</p> <p>But the greatest magic, I think, is not in the spectacular or strange, not in rabbits pulled from hats or water walking on itself— it is in the way we choose to see: in the decision, made each morning, to believe the world is still worth wonder.</p> <p>And if that is illusion, if the magician's hand is quicker than the eye's capacity for truth, then let me be deceived. Let me keep believing in the impossible arithmetic of grace— that two broken things can make one whole, that love is a card that never wears, that magic, after all, is only the name we give to what we haven't yet learned to doubt.</p>
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