The light looks different from here. I didn’t realize the tint before a shade of my own creation now.
I feel it in the way silence hums, no longer buzzing through my chest but a full-handed chord sung in the margins carved out of Peace.
The light is brighter here, too when she smiles, as if from within Golden hour filling space that once ached.
Change is rarely without chasms. Healing is rarely without darkness.
Yet neither is as daunting as never seeing the light of my own creation.
So we stop on the roadsides for wildflowers music and bouquets spill out of windows, passion flowers filling my chest I root myself where the earth is soft, Pleasure the only map leading us to where we are and where we can be. Free.