wishful blues

You cast your spell and everything is done at once. The world plods on about its business while you glow in your  corner. The magic makes you pliant, and the magic's all around. Written down in grim brick work and fibrous green words, the wish unwinds your grip. Fly or fall, your tether will never hold so well again. The silty smoke of blown out candles, the certain sadness of a dream come true.

So there is that blue that is the blue of skies, the bright of the sun on the sunniest of days. There is the way that want will wear a hole through the thick of it, desire burning through each turn of the wide old world. This disparate specificity, the stone turned and the sword long since rusted away. The blunt calm that feels like clarity, making your way inch by inch. You feel the  steel of each set detail, that precious finger fall along the arc of substance. You close your eyes, and you almost see it better. You close your eyes, and all the blues go blue.

The wish is made and the deal is struck, between the clipped winged devil and those faraway stars. You turn in circles, mistaking this for that, spun one way only to lose another. Chasing the tail of a comet, expecting sparks, finding only ice.  The self the closest to closed of any set, those selfish leanings only making it all burn faster. The spell is loosed, all knots and tails. You are at last unbound, lost to the rest of the world.