(a place where lonely hearts go to remember. a place where lonely hearts go to forget)
i. it lives in the stories which drink your heart dry, in the words clinging to your soul, the ghost of absent wings longing to fly. it's just fiction, [it's just fiction], but the deed is done—you will never look at the world the way you did once.
ii. in the distance the streetlights look like faerie orbs, the cloaks of the passersby a mirage for witches' robes. it's the glimpse of the [other] that you catch sometimes, in cracked mirrors and shadows that climb. through the gaps of your ribcage it reaches still, a gaping hole reality will never quite fill. a wish to go to the place where your heart has been, leaving the rest of you behind, whole and apart and forever inbetween.
iii. you carry your dreams with you in the morning light and your shoulders sag under their might. polite smiles and polite words resting on your tongue, weighed down with magic spells and war cries and a siren's song never sung.
iv. the weight of something that's more than this—more than tired smiles on morning trains and tired hearts under tightened reins. more than fluttering wishes which will never reach and half—dreamt worlds that are never to be. a sinking knowledge of the things you lack—knowing perhaps that you were made from the stars, knowing perhaps that there's no going back.
v. you mix wishbones and dandelion puffs until you can't tell them apart and let the world reflect on your seaglass heart.