She sits in the corner, sipping her coffee, her oversized hoodie keeping her warm. The radio plays soft opera, ambient light filling the room.
She's quite different from others, prefers humming under her breath writing in a journal all her prose and poetry messily scribbled, rather than singing an off key karaoke at a loud party surrounded by people getting wasted.
Her hair flys carelessly, her wanderlust eyes looking around at people, no doubt, conjouring up a thousand tales to tell of each one. She'll prefer orange juice over wine, and not lose sleep over what people think. Her eyes held a sparkle, few had let go of, she wasn't afraid to cry, or laugh or frown.
A handful would understand her, even less, have the courage to love her. The girl who lives in the clouds, nose buried in the world of words, her heart too pure to be risked breaking. A girl, so precious to lose, was best to elude her.
She, an allegory of belief, of miracles. Belief that the world isn't as bad as people curse it, for we too are a part of it. She, an allegory of faith. Who still believes in all things good, sugary worlds, and elixated people.
She is the lost me, I search till this date, in the broken fragments of my soul, waiting for a miracle.
Maybe, she isn't as lost as I thought.
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