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I let down my hair
for the wind to play with.
I tell myself
I’ll untangle the strands
later, after the words have
been laid down on paper,
because my muse
will not be bothered
by scrunchies or watches
or tinted sunglasses.

I want to live within
a certain nudity
of sensibility,
like a closed wound
that’s been through all
stages of healing;
the only thing left to do
is be allowed to breathe
and not be swathed
in layers of the nonessential.

I like to fall
asleep while dreaming
under the eaves of
quiet contentment
on idle afternoons with
only the breeze as lullaby,
and awaken to the gentle
caresses of the sun.

I like to have little birds
take refuge in
my hand-painted serenity,
the flapping of little bird wings
replaced by the patter of
little bird feet,
curious and carefree,
and believe in my heart
that the great and
powerful destiny
that directs my path
with certainty
has also set aside some
blank pages for me
to write on as I please.

“Mira” by photographer Sonya Khegay


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