Marching

We used to dance and play, ribbons streaming through our hair and light dripping from our fingers.

Now we march in perfect lines, only black and white and sharp edges. The clunking of boots fills the silky silence.

Where does magic go when she’s on vacation and how long until her return?

Trust the word dj, little one. Let Broca’s Area rest for a moment, and know that the music will play again.