This is a guide where the heart wanders in case it has been torn. This is the closest and the farthest from home. It rekindles and rules out memories, washes out all remembering.
There is a place she knows people wouldn’t think of as beautiful as she would. They might even look for a corridor leading somewhere else without the cold floor and bare walls. But this is, she says, what makes it beautiful.
She looks out the high windows way above her head. Her soul screams to the unknown faces from the other side. But no one notices, but the little streaks in broken weakened glass dampened with her breath.
She lies in corners. She rests against walls she could paint with utter delight. Her fingers get soaked in memories she’d rather have. She plays in her head a series of events she’d incorporate with reality.
She flutters around and suddenly find herself in ruins, in what she failed to hold with both her hands, in what she has fell short of saving. But her Corinthian columns still stands proud, quite enough to build another Parthenon.
Then she sits under the sky with a silent smile. She looked up.
She still and will, set the rain on fire.