Some afternoons, the sun asks you to play.
It drips onto your skin like sap, it bothers you like a small loved child, it spins a halo fast around you until it is a viscous prayer, a comic truth, a speech bubble asking the rest of us loudly all to look to look to look.
To see what is golden, even with eyelids closed.
To hear your smiles, and give them sound.
To search for treasure with the softest tips of our fingers, our lips, the air in our throats.
Nothing is ours to keep, we are catchers and passers.