Laying here on the ancient red carpet, hair damp with the smell of lavender and skin lotion soft and allergy red; I have never felt more at peace.
Artificial cool wind stroke the bare skin of my thighs as the radio crackled with bad reception; I wish for the feeling to last.
The book that seem to be that spider web thin thread between me and crushed belief, an empty notebook waiting patiently for ink beside it; I imagine so much.
But what is this, the difference, the impact, the bitterness, the hope, the wish.
Nothing more than a motivation for it.
Spread those wings baby butterfly.
Make the sun shine in your colours.