A Farewell Spell for Marfa

 A Farewell Spell for Marfa

There’s a certain kind of dusk that only belongs to Marfa—the kind where the light bleeds slow, like a wound refusing to close. Dust rises from the road in amber halos, and the air hums with that strange, invisible electricity that’s neither joy nor sorrow, but something in between. Out here, endings don’t announce themselves; they just drift in on the wind, quiet as tumbleweed shadows.

The desert feels hollow tonight. The motel signs buzz faintly, the horizon wears its bruise of burnt pink and violet, and the ghosts of all my former selves wander the edges of town, whispering promises they couldn’t keep. Even the wind sounds different—less like a song, more like a sigh.

Marfa was once a kind of spell for me. The wide, merciless sky taught me surrender. The desert dust buried my noise, my need to belong. There were nights when I swore I could feel the old witches stirring under the mesquite—old souls who taught me that solitude is its own kind of prayer. But the magic that once held me has shifted, like light across adobe walls. What shimmered gold now feels pale, distant.

Still, I can’t bring myself to call this goodbye. The desert doesn’t do absolutes—it knows that love lingers in the dust, that memory clings like sage smoke to denim. Maybe one day the wind will call me back, softer this time, older, more ready to listen.

For now, I’ll leave my heart here, tucked beneath the cracked lip of a desert stone, waiting for the next dusk that smells like rain and electricity. Waiting for the moment when Marfa decides to remember me again.