• Black magic
    The kind like stars you see
    At 3 in the afternoon
    When you shouldn’t
    The kind like the little lumps in tapioca pudding
    That look rotten
    And old
    And curdled
    But aren’t
    If you like that sort of thing
    The kind like imperfect pearls
    With a brown streak
    Like mudslide on your wedding dress
    The kind where 2+2=a crowd
    But 1+1=complete

    It’s the kind of magic that’s self justified
    That’s judged too fast
    And remembered too slow
    When one person loves another
    But isn’t loved back
    Where arching handwriting meets aching wounds
    And when the rain keeps coming
    And the sun doesn’t understand why
    It has to fight to be seen.