Shabby magic; some words and a handful of dust

As I spell I keep myself spellbound, fixed at my desk, fixed in my head. The words come flowing out, I read them, I read them or do they read me, but we remain aside from the world in a solitary love affair, in isolate reciprocity, ours the dying lovers' embrace. When will the words grow cold and stiff and press too tightly on me, corpse-white? Will I feel the growing horror, loathing as the thing nearest to me is revealed in its full monstrosity and hideous mockery of life? When will I curse fidelity? keeping me rooted in a loveless union out of fear, a miser grasping at sand, fists clenched, now emptying as the final grains tumble and with them, illusion.