You were more than a practitioner of magic.
From the moment my eyes touched yours, I was lost.
I was lost in all your glitter.
You conjured me so easily,
And this heart of papyrus
Bleeds quicker than it beats.
You split this body in two,
Stacking one half on top of the other,
As if I were a quarter on white tiles.
Yet, like Magus you stopped levitating too soon.
But it is me who will fall to my death.
A dexterity of hands.
Never to win your fame.
Or to have my tanned skin pulled out of your hat.
Because we are blinded by trees of orange.
And back to a drawing room setting
To recreate what is perfect in our minds.
Soiree Fantisque ‘