Seventy Six

The wind is billowing my blue curtains,
and messing with my mind.

It smells of rain.
It sounds of palm tree fronds tossing their tresses to the tunes of tinkling wind chimes.
It giggles. It twinkles. The stars, they simply obey.

It tugs at my fingers, the tips of my ears, my skin.
The roots of my hair.

It promises to find in me strength –
to tear, claw and carve out from deep within, throbbing, full-bodied, gasping words. Words so tender, that I cup them in my palms. Words so fleeting, that I fear losing them. Words, like delicate drizzle that I hungrily savour. Words, sweetened by patience, perfect by persistence.

Words that I kneel before, utterly humbled.

And suddenly,
the curtains are still.
It is quiet.