Synapse

Now he is still,  nose over his interest, eyes moving; mouth moving silently but furiously. I see by his eyebrows a new discovery, mundane to me by years of life's  wearing and dulling my own once identically deep intensity. Shoulders now rise, knees bounce up under him, a pile of gangly limbs huddled longing to leap into the page, almost wishing to drink it in. Later he will speak without abandon, recounting every detail entwined with the "what should haves" "when I's" and "how is it possibles", in an electric bundle of verbosity.  The beauty that explodes from silence as  his mind transforms words into life and vision and possibility, hope, forgiveness, and a prism of brilliant beautiful  innumerable color,  cannot and will not be found on an illustration in his same book or any prized  photograph in print.  Now he is still,  lit dynamite, just a spark.