Transylvania, but not among the vampires, or the bloody king.
Still there are woods and places for the Fae to hide away safely.
I hear a whisper of 16, and a matchstick lights my clove cigarette.
Mermaids come every summer, up into the mountain aquarium.
In the rippling blue light their wild hair floats, soft eyes give wishes.
My hand upon the glass, she smiles, and places her hand up to mine.
In Transylvania, and in the mountain tourist town, I find a fleeting peace.
I hear a whisper of 16, but memory cannot fill you, maybe magic can now.
I throw away my clove cigarettes. You made it to them underground at 41.