The only way this is more magical is if it were lightning. If it struck and throttled the body with the stun and burn of electric thrill. If it grounded and blasted the unaware into precognition. Defying the debasement of hope and chasing darkness with millisecond illumination that bent reflection. Were we in the exposed shadows frozen on the concave horizon of a spurned retina? Day wanted to triumph in the face of this audacity, but it relinquished its solemn hold over the quiet and was shaken like loose windows by the speed of hungry endeavor, the sonic boom of progress. In the face of such ingenuity, the color of our past grows deeper, earning the respect of children with eyes turned upward and awe spreading as if moss on cold stone. If there can be magic, it’s that two find each other among the entropy of failure and beauty surrounding every move. So this is no parlor trick and neither was the slight of hand preceding it, but rather the grand illusion bought into by countless ailing hearts; children with lost stuffed companions standing at the shoreline where the sea stole their love. Our tides remain merciless, pulling us down and away from each other, and their gravity starts from the glowing core of our hunger to never be alone. Let’s not die in an empty room. Let’s not give up. Yet this feels like chicanary, the falling wildly grasp at crumbling cliffs while bleeding from raw fingers, all while smiling and nodding that the ground is directly underfoot. Perhaps lightning strikes the same place over and over again, but you simply grow numb to the shock. Perhaps that’s the cruelty of divination, that it’s all simply a trick of the mind that fools the heart.