Photo Credit: xenunova on

That’s what they call magic nowadays,
that flutter in your belly,
that heat in your chest.
Heart-pumping magic
that leaves ashes on your skin
until you’re clothed in gray fire
that lights up worlds
with firework-flames,
green and gold and red and purple,
and it stays like that forgetting feeling,
like you left the stove on
because without it,
without that fire
and those flaming fingerprints,
nothing is whole or right.
The world hovers on
dull and ordinary and lost
without the sparklers
he stamps on your soul.




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