This Girl

There is this
Girl.

She twirls in front of dark windows
And stares out them
And she must be seeing her reflection.

For it is far too dark to see anything out there, other than her own deep eyes gazing back at her
Unless she’s imagining the world
And its billions of trillions of shards of souls, and soul-dust just floating, flickering, wicks of endless candle, simply showing off and spiraling in the darkness; maybe she sees flame, casting light where light by all rights should never be, because the Night owns some parts of the world; but there is the fire anyway, guttering but Alive, raking the shadows to shreds with its insistent rays, existing, twirling, spiraling with the joy of living and fighting and roaring quietly but persistently;

maybe that is what
The Girl sees outside her window
In the very very cold abyssal yawning night.

But I’m pretty sure
She just likes to dance in front of the darkened glass.

And maybe her own flame
Is fed by that dance.

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