He is a boy made of wildflowers and walks in the woods after rain.
He is the smell of moss and old books that he reads in the morning over a bagel and earl grey.
He is the sun coming out from behind a cloud and the way velvet moves across your skin.
He is the flowers he presses in his notebook between pages filled with poems about the milky way.
He is little kids learning to walk and the way a cat purrs.
He is the smell of hot chocolate after a cold New England day.
He is the way grandma holds me tight after a heartbreak.
He is the sound of the ocean and the water rushing by.
He is the book pages, wise and comforting.
He is made of my dreams and speckled with stardust that make up the galaxies that cover his cheeks.