Dear Lover,
I lit three candles—to represent the sun—I wrapped them in leprechaun clovers and moonwalked around them backwards, in a velvet tuxedo jacket with pinstripes, when the moon was half, instead of whole, and lemon meringue blue and shining and all shadowy. I sang a Christmas carol about my Santa Baby while juggling Cinderella’s pumpkin seeds and making wishes on dead stars for you. I think my chances must be stronger with fallen stars since there are so many fewer of them, so that must make them extra special and maybe they hold more magic than the trillions of other stars that are still holding onto life instead of darkness.
I bathed with a baby elephant, splashing splashing in the sun, singing another Christmas song cause all I wanted was you and chestnuts, and maybe some almonds roasted in honey, and s’mores. I wanted us to be s’mores, s’mores, s’mores. I wanted me melting into you, and us melding to create something deliciously beautiful, so people would worship our union, rocking and dancing around campfires.
And I? I would be lighting more candles because they represent the sun and I have been living in shadow without you. For you are a blue moon and I have drawn you in the heavens of my mind. And you are Christmas morning and Santa’s sugar-free sugar cookies and warm milk with a dash of cinnamon and patched stockings over the fireplace. And you are stars fallen, falling, stars to fall on Noel’s moon. You are Indian elephants and their African cousins, and lions, and Siberian tigers, and Polar bears. You are penguins’ pebbles and chestnuts and walnuts and cashews and almonds and creamy peanut butter and strawberry jelly and cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving. You are marshmallows and s’mores and chocolate and Nutella and fluff and cinnamon graham crackers and a campfire worth huddling for. You are deliciously beautiful.
This spell is for you.