HANDS

A woman is a soul of mystery, sometimes to herself as well. She can take the pain of an entire ocean yet not shed a tear. She can be a need for a hundred souls, an inspiration to the fallen and shoulder to the broken. She can become everything one needs her to be. But sometimes she’s just her; dreamer like a child and winged like a free bird; trying to let go everything; dying to be alone…

I came to my senses when the orange spark had extinguished and had taken with it the dance of the smokes. The light was still there, in a mood perhaps to linger a little bit more. This time I followed the light and my steps stopped behind a closed door. I had my answer. The light had already begun to fade. I opened the door and welcomed the air in. I gazed at the sky which was still bearing the red of the sun and blue of its infinity.