There will always be a Light under the door.
It will shine brightly, waiting to be recognized and cherished. You see, I have a weakness. There are too many Februarys, despite the bits of rose petals and crystallized sugars woven into the layers of my hair.
How many times have I stood before this door, admiring the cracks in the walls where exposed tree roots wind around the chandelier, climb the staircase like a trellis. I have become a part of the sprawl, ankles and wrists bound and burdened by false tomorrows.
It just breathes through me, this Light, pulsing in prismatic heartbeats. I could touch it with my toes, but… it could break away, shatter, ride a wave to another horizon. I couldn’t bear to lose it, this elusive promise of jeweled solvency.
The Light will always shine under this door, beckoning me, and I know I can never follow it. In order to believe that it will never go away, I must deny it deep into the Nairobi night.