Sylvie Hill

Magic

It was the right park
But the wrong guy
It was the right sweatshirt
But a different sky

It was a summer thunderstorm
Without the making love
It was a perfect summer night
He was nowhere to speak of.

It was the perfect man
But the wrong distance
He was the most electric homme
But I didn’t want children.

Then there was London.
And me in my condo.
Smoking a smoke
Writing my tales.

And the tracks would come in
From a Brick Lane studio
1 am your time
9 pm EST flying solo.

And there was always an email
And a perfect wit
There was also consolation
And the perfect pitch

And I showed you my field
And said it just a connection
And it wasn’t mutual: “this feels like
some virtual relationship.”

And when we nail “the One”
And we break out the white
And we mail the invitations
And we get the cake just right

How the fuck do you nail it
What is stability but faking it
to the girls and poets
who have seen and touched magic?

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, July 23, 2019