Rakish man smiles

mercedes moon

spinning wheels

silvery waves

eyes dark

devious ebony skies

spirited lover

hovering in clouds.

Misted drapery opens

music plays

glistening petals drop

mouth of new moon

dancing in shadows

eyes on her.

Man paints moon onyx

with raspberry stars,

waltzing white swans

beckoning

in whispered secrets

magic potions.

White wine poured

cream crescent moon

he touches deep skin

with yearning light

opulence where

enchantment lies.

Kissing ocean’s reflection

entwining with sea

passionate alliance

with sun-glassed sun

moon holds sun

in egg cup of morning

spinning, spinning, spinning

the simple fact that we have absolutely no way of proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is nothing out there, and i struggle to believe that in a universe with billions of galaxies that there is not some far off planet with life forms we have yet to understand that could be magical. there's just no way to know.

(and that right there is the only reason i would ever want to be immortal, to see the possible day humans discover something as insane as that.)

In the glimmering reflection

of the Moon

across the Water, and

scattered Starlight

dancing across our skin,

The Glow of sun beams

through the Window, and

The Twinkle in our eyes

We found

Pixie Dust.

The guy holds out his hand sidways. he shows the length of his fingers, wiggles the thumb. that innocent thumb, oh...

he takes his other hand, covers the fingers from the top, only the sacrificial thumb is still wiggling. i guess by now it is beginning to suspect sonething is wrong. all eyes are on it, as the guy slowly, moves his left hand, along. pulling the right hand thumb with it.

i see no trace of emotion on the guy's face, but the pain is immense, the thumb is now completely sheered off, sitting motionless in the left hand. the guy spares me the sight of blood, just shows me the little tip that once was happily wiggling, clenched secretly in the left hand fist. like a cigarette bud.

of the right hand, the knuckle is broken off, and held inside. well, no one will want to see the mess.

the guy now, slowly replaces the left hand over the right and pushes the right thumb back in it's place. he's obviously wishing to reheal the severed thumb but things don't work like that.

except that they do sometimes.

just think of the level of training!

the right hand thumb is happily wiggling, and to show it is all well, the guy interlocks his fingers snd twiddles the thumbs!

what a master.

what did it take to acheive this level of wizardry?

i guess, he first took a cleaver and chopped the thumb off, then practiced for years and years to overcome the pain, to stealthily suture the finger with the pinky and ringfinger, to somhow suck up all the blood.

maybe after doing it so long it's like with cooks who don't feel pain when they burn their fingers.

but how does he prevent it from getting infected?

why would he go to so much trouble?

I twiddle my fingers a bit.

better practice on that for a while...

There is a time unmarked

Not a particular day

Or a moment even measured

But in this span, things are more

The grass is more green

The house is more home

The coffee is more warmth

That life is more blessing

It is within those quick,

Blinking times of more

That I truly believe

In magic the most

What makes me believe there is more out there?

Parts of our history we cannot explain.

How did the Mayans cut so precisely with the tools they had?

How did the Egyptians build the pyramids in a precise alignment to the stars?

Why do perspective paintings show aircrafts not of that century? Before the dawn of television and CGI?

Where did the immortal jellyfish come from?

Magic? Or something greater?

A flicker in the air catches my eye. Is that what I think it is? Nah, it can't be. Magic isn't real. That's something for fantasy stories, ones in far off lands that no one but the author has known about before.

But there is it again. Another flicker of light bouncing from one space to another. I want to catch it. To see where it will take me. Maybe it'll take me to that far off place. Maybe it'll give me new powers I never saw coming. Maybe I'll be able to fly.

I would love to fly. To whisk around through the air, looking at things from a bird's view for once. I would never have to walk again. Instead, I could just jump off the ground and soar through the trees.

But magic isn't like that. I see the flicker once more, and then I understand where it's coming from. One little look, and I see a girl sitting beside her grandpa, listening to his story for the first time. She laughs as he acts out an angry ogre stomping around the room. I see a guy nervous to ask out his crush, wondering if she really would turn him down like his friends said she would. But he does, and she says yes. I see a hardworking woman who wants nothing more than to help her famil get the promotion she was going for, finally able to stop worrying about putting food on the table for her children.

That's the magic. It's not getting powers or going to a land far away. It's being here. In the moment. Ready for the future.

tonight i drove in the rain. Phoebe Bridgers was playing and the lights i've grown to know as my town were distorted and had an ethereal glow. my sister was sitting next to me. i've been told it's the little things. i never believed it until tonight. it might be the feeling of his head on my chest or my guitar that i decorated. it's my black eyeshadow and the way my angst eats me alive. my crystals might be fake, but i trust them like my grandma trusts a cross with a sheet across it. his lips were on mine and i felt nothing. i looked at myself in the mirror and felt everything. it's the little things. it's my friends laughing with me. it's pen on paper. i have to believe it's the little things. the little things bleed magic, however small. the little magic isn't witchcraft, it's human. the little magic makes me believe. maybe magic isn't real. i still hear you either way. you and i are the storm, darling.