Scarlet

To meet me in a state of what and where I was a year ago; downtrodden, heaps of scrap; a reminder of what once was, and yet there was this nagging feeling of hope in the foreground when met with a lovely certain shade of green. It was Ainhoa's grace that kept me afloat. Perhaps I can attribute this frustration with the fact that she bloomed the charred, emptied fields of my day-to-day. That too has long passed.

But I cannot want to let go. The seeds had all been laid bare, ready for nurture, prime for consumption even. It is a forever thing. The fragile hopes of frigid tropes and frozen copes.

Love has torn me apart again.