Books don’t write themselves

Pages full of intentions and chronology
encased in linear ink,
word to word to word.

Pull back the curtain
and behold the wizard.

Just a non sequitur
with a pen and bags under their eyes.

The only magic is the pact
they made with the gods.
when they traded their sleep
to learn how to spin hours into pages.

They have no magic,
aside from astral projection.
No power
except over who lives
who dies
and who never existed.

That’s how you know you’ll never be in love.

You can’t pretend to want


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