Speculative Bubble

.

a perfect sphere, floating mysteriously above

a bed of wild roses. childishly pink, with hints

of red glittering along its smooth surface in

the backdrop of an old photo foregrounding

a deflowering white lily.

 

I tiptoe along the dimly-lit corridor every

week, pirouetting at the end. then I wait.

arms in the air, knees slightly bent, body stiff

and eyes lacking all emotion. Like an innocent

doll waiting to be unfettered by her maker. it will be

a different story later, After his footsteps reach me

and he carries me down to the chamber

where the bubble – my Bubble – awaits.

just a twist of the handle burning my back

and I take off, unstoppable. sliding myself

inside its warm, comforting body,

smiling at the blush on my face –

cheeks baby pink, lips cherry red.

 

I am happy here.
.

we can laugh and smile, and it becomes normal

to crave the feel of our fingers locked together

like a delicate clasp protecting an ancient tomb

of secrets, light and dark, questions with

no answers

.

    but it                      ends

                       it          always

              ends

                and      then     I go      back

on the              shelf

                                                 gazing

at         the sea            of people

waiting                        for       the

next

week

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