I think she might be magic, the way she dances like that, as thought she is the blue-hot flame of a candles in the wind, trying to tell you a resounding No! from the universe when you ask it for validation.
I think she might be magic, the way she emanates light, like she is the stirring of a drum, like she is trying to tell you: It has to come from the inside.
I think she might be magic, in all the ways that she sees me: her eyes, her pores, her sweat, her fingernails. Every blistered crack in my soul is open now; I’m too tired to hold this broken egg shell together anymore and I think she might be magic in all the ways she sets coursing rivers loose in my mind and my heart and my being. I’m wet for all the ways that her magic touches me, reminds me, turns distraction into dust, lights the way, like a yellow brick road all the way to the Emerald City, but the road is pure light and the city… well the city is love, and magic, and her, and magic.
Did I say magic?
How else can I tell her what every fibre of my being never stops screaming, never stops chanting over the songs I’m just trying to dance to, just trying to let my insides say how they feel, when words won’t do, so I have to settle for candles in the wind and music so loud I can feel it vibrating through my bones.
Is any of this I’m writing… anything? It’s coming out like I’m possessed, like spirit trying to identify spirit, clinging to the hope that another piece of this soul-puzzle will read it and say, That’s me, that’s mine, the world makes a little bit more sense now. Because isn’t that all we’re trying to find? The light in me that senses the light in you, the darkness that is comforted by your darkness, and together they play, like children on swings, and as the sun sets you rest your head on my shoulder and we look at each other as if to say: Aren’t we lucky? What did we do to deserve this beautiful little family?
I think I must have been good in a past life, to end up here.