saturday night, 

the scent of burning wood and apricot, 

dim, golden lights matching the seams of the curtains, 

soft-spoken hums of quiet, comfortable silence. 


she was a free bird, 

roaming the pastel-painted skies,

soft gales gathering at her tail. 


no sense of guilt,

even when dancing in gasoline – drenched to the bone,

where a flick of the wrist instigates a spark,

burning away the intangible.

an orange eulogy,

warmth tracing the lines of her frame, 

gone without a trace. 


mysterious in that,

she rested her weight onto the weak branches,

unafraid of its delicacy, 

unafraid of falling.


skin like honey and glass,

like burnt sugar and a little bit of rum.

constellations filled her eyes,

confident from the heart. 


for her, 

the belief was not in the strength of the unpredictable – the branch,

but rather,

in the strength of her own wings. 


Photo: Tripadvisor