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Jul 2017
I spent the night by the warm fire lying next to a boy I hardly knew. He spoke of religion, and he did not fear the sadness in my eyes. We whispered through the chaos that engulfed us, my eyes fixed on his. The hands that belonged to him,  moved about nervously touching whatever he may find. The words flowed from his mouth in a stream. His gaze, or lack thereof, sent chills across the surface of my skin. My flesh bubbled in response to the sound he emitted. He dreamed of the trees and the moon and all of the stars. My toes were frozen as I laid by his side. When I woke, I untangled my fingers from his and I beckoned my legs to stop hiding underneath his- and I left him.

I wanted so badly to photograph his lips and capture the fire that lived in his eyes. The dim light danced across the floor as our fingers tangoed like two new lovers drowning themselves in each other. he talked of endless giving & selfless love. "romance is beautiful" he said. I wondered if he had meant it. I thought about the moon and the sky and all of the stars. I wondered if he could tell I loved them too. I wondered if maybe he spoke to be heard or if he spoke to drown others out.

The light consumed his face and I never wanted it to come back. The brokenness was disguised by the arguments. He raised his voice and spoke out of turn. I settled and I became quiet. The placid look on my face did not waiver as the storm inside of me roared on. I froze on the floor for someone who needed saving, but when the first sign of light shown, the warmth returned and I was no longer needed. From that moment on, I understood the emptiness that housed itself in my gut. For all of the times I had stayed for someone else, a part of me left to ignite the fire in the other. Worldy things may not fill me. I am a subject of the great unknown and the recognition is unspoken, yet it is constantly ****** forward into the blind, with hopes of one day obtaining clear vision. To understand that is which not to be understood is possible but only for the impossible. With this, i carry a hole. As the others do, it becomes filled, but I recognize the need in others that I do not have myself, and I must give and give until my hands shake and my toes fall numb, then I will leave, more empty than before waiting to be filled again.

the cycle repeats
Written by
Rhianna Powell
  391
   Hannah Jones
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