In this my time of need,
I dream about
those Harmattan-breezed stories
you left unsaid on my skin,
for you were so dreaded by the thought
that your light may come alive from its slumber,
that I may reflect and echo you.

And I am whispering now,
repeating the song of your beating heart,
before you could also withdraw your touch,
and say: rather stay blind than to face with these all.

I unbound my hair...