The beautiful lone traveler

Every flight that I have taken under my experiences there sits the fading memory of beautiful strands of hair that changes color from the sun, and eyes that I could only dream to be as beautiful and blue as the cinema depicts.
There she sits with a leg dangling from under her studies or crossed arms, as if she personified a universal stress, that’s unrequited in a waiting room. The tilt of her head, makes her hair fall, like heavy threads at the end of a sowing table, then moving at the speed of breaths, it creates a harp that I imagine running my fingers through. “Play me your favorite.”

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