When I think of words

I think of numbers, or knights

Or of nights

When the sky is an inky black

the kind your fingers

Almost slip into

Like a sleeve, or oil

and you pull out some fearsome creature

maybe a squid

or a goblin with a spiky leather tail

When I see words,

I see a narrative

A plum colored pen

Drawing a honey bee sipping

from the tender lips

of a honeysuckle

I can see a page

and smell a summers eve

Or a winter,

Inside the back of my freezer

Paragraphs are the sheets that

make the bed of my mind

your, you're their

are my fine china

And a book?

A book is the fireplace, or the fire, or pit

A book is the furniture

In the castle, or the castle itself

When I read words I see a march

with streamers and trumpets

They're thumping triumphantly down the street

yelling "More! More!"

When I read, I see everything the word wants me to see

All the code in an algorithm

breaks in front of me, splitting in half

to reveal a milk white gold

The balls on each finger thrum

with excitement when they brush against

some leather bound tomb.

Because they know the worth

and the treasure each word carries

inside its husky shell