Forget this is a game –
the magic you exude is deep-seated.
I have been in love with so many wizards
but you are the first real one.
Let the world be forest again.
I want to be in that time with you,
casting spells to shake the sky
and warming our hearth with autumn leaves.
Glowing in the lights that burst from your hands
are poultices huddled on groaning shelves,
the scent of peat rising past the walls.
You look so wonderful over a cauldron,
hair flying in the heat, cheeks flushed,
holding out the spoon to me with a grin.
The spoils of your craft are all around –
charms carved from the skulls of demons
chatter at your waist. No wand in sight.
You don’t need one; words are enough,
dancing on the day like dandelion seeds.
Objects are doting creatures to your call.
You pass evocation through my body,
divine my desires, transmute me.
With one touch I melt into liquid
and you enchant my molten form.
Clicking dice bring me back to the table.
You are all smiles as you add their faces –
a different kind of magic –
and hurl your anger on our trembling foe.
I’m sorry for guessing you might be a bard;
if sorcerery was made for someone, it was you.
It’s only that you have the sweetest voice
and fill each day with music.
Rachel Bruce (she/her) is a poet based in South London. She studied English Literature at University of Warwick, and has been writing since she was young. Her work has appeared in or is upcoming in The Telegraph, Mslexia, Eye Flash Poetry, The Daily Drunk, Atrium, Lucent Dreaming and Fragmented Voices, among others. When she isn’t writing she’ll most likely be climbing or juggling. Find her on Twitter @still_emo.