The Magician



There was nothing I adored greater than retreating into my temple to watch her glow. She was magical when she laughed. Her shoulders weighed her down awkwardly and her nose crinkled at the merest thought of the things she loved. When she spoke about writing, it was like watching a carpenter smooth his hands over the side of his vessel. She shied away from my everlasting glance and tucked her auburn hair behind her ear. But she didn’t stop there. Whatever told her, whoever told her not to talk about those things hadn’t the control today. She was right in front of me and I missed her. There was war inside of me. I reveled in her laughter, but missed her sadness. I prayed on the canyons of her dimples, but missed her heavy fingertips. She needn’t do anything to entrance me further, but unbeknownst to her, she did. Her tears like water on my garden, grew my soul. Her eyes were sunshine and their hazel streaks of storm led me into her valleys. When she talked about writing, when she painted, when she left me on the edge of my seat, I couldn’t help but wonder why no one had written about her. I sat bare-souled in front of her, watching her lips like lightning from the sky. I dangled on to every letter as she spoke in the most romantic cursive to my heart. How did I unwillingly fall, bequeath myself to your most intimate measures of being? I never believed in magic, until you.

Alexandra L. Narron

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