Published by: Keith A. Ambuya
Date published: May 02, 2022
Time published: 12: 04 PM
My heart was a white balloon stretching its air on a windy summer. Gripped tight by my younger soul who possessed a set of careless fingers who held onto a thread of careful whispers. It was freed like a spiraling smoke adjourned on a midday coffee, unbounded from my palms for a newly-served dessert presented by my brain. It passed through intersections and got stolen by an unforeseen rain. It clung to a bridge as a witness to the sunset's proposal to the sea. Drunk passengers of a caravan stole it before the trees; painted it with dark fog to be more exciting and mysterious like a mist. They slipped it in the twilight clouds after finding a comfortable bed to sleep in, for it became too messy for their clean sheets, too dark for their tipsy bones. Alone, it swayed across the ocean; being lost in the city of loss and thorns, of turns and runs.
A morning stretched from the sun was all it took to finally snap it out of life. And that was the day that I realized something was missing, something my younger soul used to protect. I searched for it on a life etched by poets, but only its thread came back to me in the city of ruins. It was held by a man who built puppets. He gave it back to me with a deflated balloon and a piece of cloth to protect it from the stealers.
"That is the most precious thing that I have seen in the ruins. Be careful next time."
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