There is magic in the cold breath of air that dances across the lawns of my neighborhood, magic in the way it picks up fallen leaves and jigs with them, merry little capers that demand attention if not immortalization.
I wish I could bottle this impossible feeling, and the way the moon gleams in the sky like a promise of something more. I'd bottle it with the scent of mystery that you can find in the odd corners of libraries where the books have weight and personality, and they choose you instead of you choosing them. I'd add the impossible joy of finding a friend, and mix it with the aged perfection of inside jokes.
I'd wrap it in the potential of a blank sheet of paper, and stopper it with description so real that to hear or see it is to feel it. I'd wrap this bottle in paper made from the feeling of 'home', and put a bow on it woven from the colors of the sunset sky---
And then I'd give it to you.