“I’m capable of magic, you know.  It’s always been that way,” he told her one October morning.

“Show me.  I don’t believe it.”  She kept on making toast.

“And that’s why you’ll never know,” he sighed  and returned to being ordinary.

I am prone to flights of fancy.

But due to inclement whether, there’s been a delay.

“Here,” she says and drops her heart into my open palms.

Blood drips between my fingers and the pulsating rhythm of ventricles radiates up my arms, jumpstarting my own heart into synch.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask in a panic.

“You’ll figure it out.”

I touch my fingertips against your fragile eyelids.

What surreal films play tonight in your forbidden sleepy cinema?

And, more painfully, who is tonight’s chosen star?

I think I once was a twin but my mother would never confirm nor deny this for me.

“Don’t make yourself so crazy,” she used to preach.
“There’s enough of you to go around the way you are.”

“A broken heart is my Achilles heel. I have a nose for trouble but no stomach for pain.”
With that, she gave me a piece of her mind and a wave of her hand.
I will never play Operation with the likes of her again.