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Red String

Our hands met in the mist of the crowd.
She reached out to me and I reached out to her.
The string, like that old quote said,
Reached out, pulled me to her, her to me,
We were destined to meet there.
My eyes were closed. So were hers.
I could feel her skin, soft, delicate, like paper.
It was probably very pale, as were her eyes.
Her face, delicate features, she looked younger than her years.
The scar above her left eyebrow stretched back to her ear,
But it was a thin line now.
She pulled me closer.
Her mouth turned up that almost invisible smile.
Her cheeks, without the slightest hint of tension,
She was at peace.
Closer, we collided, and my eyes could not, did not want to open.
My vision would surely not materialize.
How can I face that?
She held on, 10, 15 more seconds.
Probably looking at me with that half grin I had grown to love.
But reality I wouldn’t face; she was gone.
My eyes, suddenly responding, open.
There she is, with her pale skin, and her scar, and her smile,
And we both are pulled away.
We were supposed to meet, that’s a fact.
The crowd, I suppose, determined the rest.





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