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
but it ends
and then I go back
on the shelf
at the sea of people
waiting for the