Some have theirs through passion’s fire.
Some have theirs through cruel abuse.
Some have theirs through love’s desire.
Some have theirs with no good excuse.
My own was given his incarnate form
the dark side of a late spring storm.
I still do believe in it. No one else does.
They act like magic’s old-fashioned myth,
that it’s just me excusing the way I was
and a story to hide the one I was with.
In their eyes I’m simply a frivolous fool,
in the grand scheme of things minuscule.
I’d needed to sleep off a life of drink
that too often’d lasted a night too long.
It doesn’t much matter what I may think
or whether what I think’s right or wrong.
I did have a choice but went home instead,
took a quick shower and rolled into bed.
Before I made it to where I dreamed
I may’ve heard thunder. I don’t know
if in retrospect that’s how it seemed
or if my own head had made it so.
Either way, before long I found refuge
for my visions inside a black deluge.
From shadows emerged an incubus,
singing enchantments as he neared.
I made room in my bed for the both of us
as his shirt and his jeans disappeared.
They say how a lover’s flesh never lies,
oh but how ours lay those stormy skies.
The baby would’ve been a special boy.
The boy’d’ve grown for your girl’s mate.
Together the two’d’ve come to destroy
and having destroyed, then to recreate.
It wasn’t to be. My child was stillborn
in frosty ice one early winter morn.
In the grand scheme, things’re minuscule
when you get to move on like it never was.
This was like that — as a general rule,
moving on’s what a girl like who I am does.
My incubus isn’t a memory I will keep
except when thunder disturbs my sleep.
I can’t promise I mean the same of him
by acting abandoned now that he’s gone.
Whatever I’ve called him’s a pseudonym
hiding how deep inside his love goes on.
Inside me, that part of him will persist.
Inside him, my magic will always exist.