my magic is quieter now–
gone are the times of wildly tangled sheets;
mornings filled with whispers of sticky skin
and bursting with an overwhelming recklessness.
my magic instead resides in sleepy awakenings,
tiny hands and toes prodding me into reality,
and a warmth spreading from the nose pressed to my hair.
my magic sparks with gentle kisses,
and precious giggles.
I am filled to the brim
with it every time I hear his words:
you’re beautiful, and I love you.
before he slips back to a half-concious state,
his hand a comforting pressure against my hip.
my magic still aches through my creaky bones,
but it is no longer from drunken 2am adventures,
hasty hands fumbling to own my body;
it’s from a natural agelessness, a wisdom of the world.
I overflow with life, my skin left with the scars of
the overwhelming responsibility of what it means
to be a mother; I overflow with love.
I never claimed loving me would be easy.
(you begged me to make it fair–
I shoved a knife in the space between your ribs
and ate your breath to the rhythm of your surprise).
I always had this notion,
that you belonged not with me
but to me.
(that was our final undoing. that
act of possession over partnership).
I can still feel the slide of you lips
against my skin as I took your first kiss
(the world you were all to happy to part with),
the spark of your body as, years later,
I took your innocence, your convictions
(it was all too easy).
(you never quite gave up the hold on your heart).
I never wanted it to end this way.
(you made me your villian–
I took the shape of the words you left unsaid,
and in their absense became brighter than the force of your soul).
you spent years asking me to write
the final page,
gloss the finish you couldn’t
(the beginnings that sprouted
from the pages I burned
are more beautiful than I
ever could’ve put to words).
my last gift to you.