I’ve never experienced anything like this before – this beautifully vulnerable intimacy. The kind where you remain one inch from each other’s face, and still, star-crossed and googly-eyed, find the other to be a sugarcoated kind of irresistible. In one way or another, we are always touching when we doze in a dulcet haze.
Each person has a passion. All of us have a fire that sits dormant in the pit of our souls. But it only takes one spark to ignite it, and once that happens, it’s fireworks. And there is no going back. For me, that fire comes in the form of the written word. In stories. In literature. In the piles and piles of books I have scattered throughout my bedroom.
She is a goddess of motherhood and soothes like tender chamomile. She molds my Play-Doh dreams into brick houses that arch to the sky. And with her hand holding mine, we build bridges of full lives of coral and copper sands, where she teaches me of womanhood and wild independence like only the fiercest mother can.
No one could figure her out, and yet, she was unnervingly simplistic in everything she did. She would fold paper lanterns just to set them on fire – watch them burn against the horizon’s dying light. And with a curated whisper she would let those skyfires satiate her wanderlust, for her feet could never stand still.