Where are you at? I don't know your name. Time and again I feel like you're teasing me in a most cruel way, slinking away like smoke.
One, two, three. Tickets dispensed, potions made. Slap your hands clean, dip them in hot cauldrons, burn away the remains with poisons. Repeat. Throw in a few clients. Smile and appease, repeat.
You make me stupid smile, and I cannot help it. I want you by my side, fighting the horrors of the world, back to back. But I must let go of your sweet smile, missing you every day.
Paying homage to the dead who have written before me. Critiques of mankind and a cynical nature, a man I admired spat his truth in frustration. Whether right or wrong, he pronounced his voice and lived with conviction. The dead still affect the living.
They prep for the excursion buying flasks of water, strapping a pint to their sides, weighing out their costumes. I put on my pointed hat, leathers. My outfit draws my mirror's smile. I promise myself to finally get a bowl of the ever delicious smelling mushroom soup.
Though the witch loves to conjure potions, she attempts making charms, spinning stories, and teaching others. Masters before her watch in earnest of her growth. Some smile, others scowl.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me. Beautiful caramel and bright smile. Teacup in her hands and a wealth of knowledge behind her glasses.
The shrill sound fills the air, followed by squealing of tires. I tune my phone, listening in to the numbers, waiting to hear any news. And I think, what it would be like.
They speak plainly but with a certain authority underlying their words. They watch your eyes and every response. Whatever you say may affect your chances; the rewards for risk are great. "Great. When do we start?"
The cylinders sit brewing their concoctions and potions. The witch waits nearby, taking in the sounds of a bustling city tavern. Music, lights, merriment. Different, but beautiful.