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It's written in the snow. Hidden in the stars. And wrapped in paper on Christmas Eve. It's buried on a desert island. Scratched upon a tree. The way she cannot help but smile. The way you hate it when he leaves. It's written in a teenage diary. Danced upon a floor. Sung from the very depths of your soul as the crowd calls out for more. It's whispered to eternal spirits that watch you from above. It's in the blink of an eye. The slightest of smiles. In luck you can't explain. It rides the back of nervous foxes. Glistens in the eyes of fearless robins. In multicolored halos that illuminate the sky. It's dreams come true. Hopes achieved. And friends who phone you up to ask you how you've been. It's in frosty morning air. The way she plays with her hair. It's not a care for things they say you need. It's magical. Mystical. Brighter than gold. A thing that can't be sold. It's goose-bumps on the skin. The way she looks at him. A fable she once told.

I know a place where grown-ups do not go. A place they have forgotten many moons ago. It's not a place with neon lights. It's not bursting at the seams. It's not a place that you can see. It's just a place you feel.