Second Place
Mine Alone That night her eyes, Caribbean blue and the black essence of the sweat-distorted mascara dripped down her face and roses had kissed her cheeks leaving faint, delicate echoes of their scarlet hue and cascading like an unfurling sail, her golden hair tumbled down free from the tight constraints of her worn extravagant coiffure and being in a lovely state of exhaustion, she said “I just look like death, don’t I?” Grinning, I said “But, death doesn’t smile” Then, that time I was playing the piano and she sat down next to me “Can I play?” “Be my guest” She began slowly, but soon her fingers began to flow and dance over the keys Her song, more elegant, more complex, more beautiful than mine But. It didn’t compare to her, nothing could. The ease and focus in her eyes, the timid biting of her lip, these habits of beauty, they all contributed to the magnetic pure grace that emanated from her the pure grace found in all her moments. But. There is still that moment that has not occurred I can neither conceive nor visualize the hour or sanctuary. But. I can see the innocent bliss in her eyes I can feel the wild hope bounding in my blood