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
