Chasing the Magic

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

I told myself I wouldn’t write a poem about how we swam with the oysters under

the full blue moon,

playing like children in the breaking waves of implication.

I told myself I wouldn’t mention the night you asked for time, but really meant distance,

where we spoke in red wine metaphors from separate rooms.

I thought if I built arguments in memories of rising action

facades would never fall.

Toppling from the towers of daybreak, where insecurities decorate for the holidays.

Our story is empty dance floors, unplanted flowerbeds.

I’m not interested in dress codes or dinner parties; you can wade through your predictions of how

things should be

alone.

 

Or you can swim with me,

under that same blue moon, in September chapters,

laugh at uneasy footing, smiling with the fish.

But if you choose to push this tide, saltwater potential,

you must promise to only paint with colors of hope.

 

I told myself I wouldn’t let another night turn you into art,

but the oils on this masterpiece cracked before they dried,

the artist locked themselves away in the bathroom

and you have stopped listening

Sometimes beauty hurts too much.