The Expiry of Magic

You wear a cloak of cigarette smoke. You breathe in huge gulps of oxygen and billow out dark clouds of French roast. Large metallic cogs of fire, crackling and sharp, slowly beginning to die out into embers, crown your head. Words spurt out of your mouth in natural springs; rich and discordant at first, magical in their own confusion, but short lived. They form no bonds, quickly deteriorate, and crash loudly. Echoing different sounds of disappointment in every ear. You had faded into a memory, into an old dream that was frayed at the end and missing meaning. Years ago I mistook the first words I heard coming out of your mouth, the rich cacophony of it all, as something important. As that thing that made my skin prick up and my heart still, as that enchanted reality throbbing right beyond reach, as the answer to all those unsolved riddles. I remember when I last saw you. Your hand snaked into mine, scaly, dry, unfamiliar and uncomfortable frantically trying to grab hold of me. Your eyes quavered in determination. Like a leech you sucked me dry, you clung to me with desire and nervous tenacity. You were afraid to lose me; sadly, it was you who we all lost.