Where There's Magic

I see magic,
but only when it’s visible.
It’s filtered by the day’s length
and stirred by the people who make it.
Sometimes it’s sung or laughed about
and I can see it in a dimple or a glance.
Other times
it’s horribly contorted and mal-configured
yet manages to breathe nonetheless.
But it always feels triumphant;
not over anything in particular,
just sort of grace-worthy and contented with silence...
like he was when I met him.

The shapes in his face
drew a straight line directly into the heart of whatever he looked at.
And I counted them;
the delicate ovals
and each of the partially stellated polyhedrons
all swinging in unison
from mouth
to brow
to brow.
My distance was my shield
and I used it valiantly
(but not for long).
His gaze that could puncture a seam in my pants
drove its stake through my center instead.
And every beat was for him.
Words fell like seedlings,
so fertile at first
but blackened with bitter impermanence.
Hopes were just ghosts in sheep’s clothing
and twilight eventually conceded to dawn
(as it had grown so accustomed to do).

Blame’s as silly a thing as sin itself
when you’re throwing your life at the past
but I restlessly linger the same,
with forgiveness always
and never
but a ripple of difference away.
The difference between yes and no,
the difference between what makes wishes just wishes
and reality actually real
takes a far stronger mind than mine to consume.
All that seems to matter is one thing.
And that one thing
is something that “isn’t”.

But I’m a visionary however insolvent.
Magic will always appear to me.
So if he lives in a world where there’s magic
may my wishes sink swiftly below
to the place where my heartbeats are stalling
for a happily ever ago.