There is a place in my heart. I know it.
I wish it was not in darkness. Distracted. Hazy. Lost in the fog of a morning road in Paris where my steps are labored, cramping pain up legs into the emptiest stomach. Thought of what has been done, said, lost in shadow. Gain every light and torn by innocence.
Why? To be more than the confines of here. That is always how it is and how it will be. The desire to be on every street alone yet embraced. Push and pull as I please.

As I please.
Despite the shreds of what remains.

A breath is a breath. A moan is a moan. Touch, repeat, warmth, shiver down the spine. Hunger, loneliness, emptiness, all so light it becomes dizzying chaos. That is my reality.
I search for truth in the clouds when it is all true vapor seeping between fingers. There is no truth here. There is no enlightenment to be gained, just knowledge of feeling in mud.

Seeping into sand, I move faster.

Why does she not scream? Why does she not grab the rope awaiting her, his outstretched hand? The sand fills her every pore. Nothing is like the sensation of the earth's pressure on such brittle skin. The fight, the challenge, the aspiration to be more than a consecutive motion of day to day nonsense that arrives at nothing more than one smiling face.
Yet.
Of course there is more.

But in that second, sinking sinking collapse of time, **** it all if she does not feel free. Saved.

It can only pass. This will not be. Sorrow will come as essence, it will be stripped from her again. Reminded of every past venture into this safe hollow. But it will finish.
God, will she? Or is there a sunrise she will awaken to?
She will renew her light, I promise you. A stumble, rocks buried in her flesh. The most silent burden, the hidden scar. I promise you. She will return to whatever truth first made your eyes light for hers. Promise. Let her promise love and keep it.
The child within her dreams of nothing more.