Black shadow, hands praying. Dim moonlight coming in from paned, stained glass windows, see-through shingles on a rooftop. Glass houses. Cast no stones here. She’s just a silhouette in the night, taking a knee to pray to a God more distant than the moon; Trying to reconnect with the silence and trying to recreate something she felt forever ago. Putting forth her attempt, she clasps her hands intently. It is cold in the church. Empty, the sensation before dawn. But there are pinpricks and the distant thought of, perhaps I am the only one awake in the world. Outside there are no cars rumbling to get to where they’re dying to go. Birds are still asleep in their nests with their heads tucked into their wing, sitting on eggs, or newly hatched offspring. A breeze blows ever so slightly, promising no illusions. Potion bottle tumbles from a bag, and she wants to capture this somehow. Fleeting transcendent thoughts, she wants to remember this tomorrow. Her hair hangs down her back, it is smooth, straight, and expertly conditioned. It is soft and silky, like a Pantene commercial. She gently runs her hands through it.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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