Magic Words
They say you have a magic tongue
that can weave the words
falling
from your mouth into tapestries
laced with gold thread.
Curl the words into scented ringlets
of flowers
formed by petals shining like
stars even in the sunlight.
I want to catch them and hold on to them
without any rearranging.
To soak myself in their perfection,
indulge
so I can keep them with me
when the magic turns dark
black
and the golden threads hard,
when you turn them to sharp steel.
They’re still your words with a kind of magic
twisted together by your tongue
but they have become
projectiles,
explosions of your anger and despair
falling,
but no longer falling
gently.
I’m going to catch them and hold them now
so that I can rearrange them
back
to what they were.

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