tender vinaigrette

undying

she opens her eyes to encounter the
lights that find their way through her curtain,
bathing her room in a golden shower,
drowning her in a heaven-like hole.

she stands up, feeling the tickle,
the goosebump, running up and down her
spine, touching every single vertebra,
from the cervical all the way down to the sacral, of the wooden floor's coldness that resides through the night.

she rubs her eyes, those hazel eyes she sometimes forgets that could set the world
in amber fire; those eyes that become an endless brown void in which people get secretly lost into; those copper eyes that keep locked the fierce of her body, the determination on her limbs, the hunger in her fingertips, until they are allowed to be released; eyes worthy of almighty gods that search for liquid elixirs of chestnut and ginger.

she feels a deepness in her lungs, an emptiness through her veins.
she wants to run away from the storms and the thunders, from the sand that itches on her toes.
she wants a fresh start – she imagines
running until her heart implodes of tiredness, reaching some place, magical, mystique, somewhere she feels like home.
somewhere where she feels the earth beneath her has been expecting her, calling her, begging her to stay as her holy feet dance above.
she wants the silent mornings, the greatest views; she wants to eat delights; she wants to dress in silky dresses by midnight and feel the bergamot air enter her curtains. she wants jazz floating through every room, millions of books to read, to fill her head with imagination and life, new ideas of what road to take.

she wants something extraordinary
something big;
she wants some adventure, some taste of new air, of new things, good things
she is tired of the thunderstorms, tired of situations going wrong.

she doesn't want minutes of the sun
she wants to live in an undying sunset