Pale Pixie Dust

I enjoy smoking in the sun,
Cigarette or joint.
Taking a break in the fresh air,
Fresh air quickly made sour by smoke.
Flicking and watching the white ash blow away on a light breeze like glimmering pixie dust.
Terrible, carcinogenic, cancer-causing pixie dust.
The magic of a joint making the colours of the world brighter,
Or the simple magic of a cigarette moving me from the frantic fear and emotional turmoil...
To simply the somber realization that I'm a pitiful pixie, but at least I've found some way to put magic back into this dark and less-than-extraordinary life I lead.

There used to be so much magic in the world around me.
So long ago, but I still feel the stark absence.
Though now, three years from my last truly magical experience,
Though it itself was merely a reprieve from the absence, I'm numb to the sting.
I suppose that's just growing up though.

It all goes grey.
It all grows cold.
The pixies leave our warm happy heads.

Though some still alight on my work laden hands,
To smolder between my cold fingers and release their magic only when flicked.