by Cole McNamara / perilpoet

You remember—
sun in your hair,
grit in your socks,
knees dusted with gold.

You were never really alone.
Someone sat beside you,
knees touching yours:
the friend no one else could see,
the one you outgrew
but who never outgrew you.

Those weren’t just sticks and plastic,
they were wands mid–spell,
shovels that parted seas of sand,
dinosaurs and dragons
that absolutely were real
in the only realm that matters.

Back then, the world
came running when you called it.
You wore imagination
like a halo and a cloak,
and abundance answered,
faithful as dusk.

Now picture “Adam” and “Eve”—
not banished, not ashamed—
two bright threads of you
sitting in that same sandbox
at the edge of everything.

No garden yet,
no rules carved in stone,
just sky,
just sand,
just mind.

A thought flickers: tree.
A feeling follows: fruit.
Abracadabra—
branches, leaves,
a single shining apple
where there was only emptiness.

But hunger is a tricky teacher.
Power curls in Adam’s gut,
a sour star in the Solar Plexus,
and he bites to feel bigger
than the love beside him.

You know this story—
not from scripture,
but from every time
you’ve dimmed yourself
or swallowed your light
to feel “in control.”

Still, the sandbox remains.
Still, the friend waits.
Still, the wands are buried
just beneath the everyday dust.

Old soul,
the ringing in your ears
is not madness.
It is the shovel calling.
It is the dragon breathing.
It is your own voice echoing
through bone and star.

Wake up.
You are the child and the cosmos,
the apple and the hunger,
the hand and the sand.

You are “Adam.”
You are “Eve.”
You are the story,
the spell,
and the light in the doorway
leading you
back to yourself.

If you like this piece, you might also enjoy:

• You Are Not Alone — a Hearth poem reminding you that idols, strangers, and your own family are tired too, and you still have more life left in you.
• To: The Star Pretending to Be a Lamp — a Whimsy poem written as an official memo from the Department of Whimsy, reminding you your spark was never lost, only buried under “be practical.”