Amulets by Bailey Burnette We sit in these wine-stained, burgundy wingbacks, Cloaked in the velvet security of affinity, Unaware of the transcendent grit held hidden in your back pocket. With Black Magic in our cups, too much sugar, and the occasional Sigh of familiarity, destiny, I see someone new in you. I feel power in the touch as your gift falls into my palm, As though they had craved to feel my skin after all these lives, To smell my musk, alluring in its warmth and potency. The scent Of us. Brilliance permeates our space; it lingers, and we feel. We see, through hazy filters of mist and illusion, our ghosts among the coffee splattered wood floors and acoustic musings of artists, The other in rose-tinted petticoats, walking. You wave a fan as Soft dampness rests on your flushed cheeks, and I whisper a slow-motion drama. Pale, pastel earrings adorn my ears; and you touch them. An ephemeral twinkling, seizing our mystic, sealing it into a
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.