Daydream

Through The Clouds

Do titles ever really need to make sense to anyone but the author? Or is it a gentle tease, to see if you're paying attention...to the story, to the author, to the sublime. Choosing titles can be fun. Playful. Painful. Frustrating. And deeply meaningful if you know where to look. And sometimes we hide that place so well, it would take being inside our own heads to truly know. There's a reason for that.

Sacred Places

She fell in love with him on the broad stairs of a bordello, in a part of town where only indigents lingered. It was her new town, her new place, her new world for just a little while, and there he sat beside her as though he had always been there. With her. His words were liquid, the way his accent caressed her language, and though she understood every word, she let herself get lost in the very air he held around himself. It smelled of jasmine and spice and all the exotic things that existed just out of her reach. And as she let herself drift in that little bit of heaven, she kept one toe on the ground. Because if she let go, she knew she'd float away, up and up to where there was no ground any more. Just her and jasmine and spice and that voice that spoke in melodies.

That scent. That place. That time became a part of a little church she filled with sacred moments of clarity. Memories that would echo through her life, resurface when she needed their grace. Somewhere inside she could revisit when she got lost again, like she always did.

She closed her eyes. Smiled. And fell through the clouds.