In the morning I gaze into the beautiful red, glowing calm, newly waking star. Its radiance sings of things that are born, and the notes are played against the cold wind. The ivory clouds above flee from the day before while painting themselves in the crimson hue of blood that gives them life day after day. The birds are low to the ground bowing before the image of renewal that is unfolding before them, daring not to corrupt the sovereign heaven that covers the whole earth. The fresh atmosphere I drink through my flaring nostrils, and drink deeply I do quenching the thirst of my respiration for which my flesh depends. The air gives way to a feeling that is quiet at first, but swells up in me like a fire blazing like the sun.
In mourning I gaze into morning. The cold clouds inside my eyes begin to precipitate, and slowly tears flow down my face to water the earth beneath. They are in the midst of the crimson blood that flows beneath my skin as my red cheeks give life to this sorrow that is unfolding before me now. I am bowed low to the ground, daring not to corrupt perception with my grief. The grief of loss. The grief of longing. In longing I spend my days; days poisoned by sadness intertwined with golden hope for the forever. When my heart dies, it will beat again new and in perfection. I long.
I long for someone I have never met.