Back then, I hung lanterns on my heart,
kept my own counsel
and spoke Romany in front of the marks.
I appeared 18 or 80
depending on the phase of the moon,
or the shape of my dreams.
I kept The Fool and The Tower up my black lace sleeve
and slept with other girls
thinking to cure my fever and my thirst.
Now a young man comes,
his mute-bird girlfriend behind a pace
with her patience and frybread face.
I long ago burnt my heart down to nothing,
fueled with equal measures bravery and turpentine.
So, why does he make a visible ghost of me?
Do I wail for wanting to touch him,
or because my unringed fingers die behind my folded arms,
cursed by years?
Once, I hung lanterns on my heart,
and spun spells that only worked when I didn't care.
I mixed brown sugar with oleander
and wrapped my sorrow in a million words.
Young man, these are not crows, they are flying ash.
I want you and cannot say it,
but you came here with intention of unraveling old spells
and have done that
for The Sunday Muse #126, where I am hosting.
image at top by Brooke Shaden.