We are drawn to the soft glow of lantern light, wringing out the darkness like ink from our child hood blankets.

And she sits quietly. Embracing history like four walls around her. Colonial castles of red brick and time. Each mortar blast a bond reminding her that her strength is mighty. Like red bricks and battlegrounds.


And the drip of the bottle is an hour glass. Measuring the night in burgundy sips. Soaking her lips to crimson.

Gentle aromas playing in the heightened senses of a heart choosing to mend. A heart choosing to beat. A heart growing stronger as the wine flows, like blood, through it's arteries.


Take in the night. Anticipate the dawn. Sing out.


There was a time. A time when this silence would have been a language. And touch would have been punctuation. But this is an exploration of solitude. And beautiful might.


The crickets sing songs to the fireflies, illuminating the world for the other in a dance of darkness and light. And she hums the harmonies.


She knows them like nature. Like shut eyed kisses.


And the abrupt giggle feels warm and rich like caramel. Musings of the sweet melting on her tongue matching the color of a foreign beach soon to melt under her toes as the tide rolls buy.


The coast is clear.


The sky is clearer.

The wind is biting.

And serves as a reminder that sometimes we must hug ourselves for warmth.


And yet in this. She fights back desire to reach out to strangers.


It is her way.


The melancholy beauty is a sweet wine. That shall never be bottled up.


Just drank in.


And wished for.


Yes.


Laughter.


And growing strength.


This is what her bricks are made of.