I lay my head on her lap, defeated, as she gently strokes my hair. She feels like a dried leaf—easily carried away by the gentlest breeze, an ever fading echo. She is that one note on a piano that brings you home from the barren lands and captures you in a trance, never be found again. Yet she stands here tall, smiling as if she hasn't known pain at all, when I know she's been through far more than l'd like to be familiar with.
I reach out my freezing palms to her warm sunshine cheeks—afraid she might fade away, but pull them back right that instant—for I fear my touch above all. My touch isn't homely, for everything to ever flourish has crumpled to it's autumn breath. Hope blooms like a dried rose petal on my palms and my December hands crush it all until the last of its remains dance away with the purple winds, leaving behind a void I try to fill every so often.
She tells me how we humans tend to hold onto things too much, to a point where they are shattered by even the most delicate of hands. So she unclenches my fists, only to find happiness lying there, strangled. I let out an involuntary gasp but she smiles it away. Smiles; I try to freeze smiles and place them on grey stony benches hoping they'd sit there forever. But you don't freeze happiness or hope or even pain, for the tighter you hold onto them, the more they slip out from your fragile iron grip, leaving behind a void emptier than any other.
Maybe that's where my home is right now, in this void. In the desolation where happiness loses its sparkle and sadness burns so much it turns to ash and vanishes forever, leaving behind its black mark. In the cracks from where her warm yellow light enters but fails to touch the tips of my blueberry fingers. In the almosts separating me and her, I reach out to feel her warmth again, only to stumble backwards everytime I'm too near. For she is nothing but everything I try to become.
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