It was past the tint of cranberry juice,
but not quite Christmas bulb crimson.
It felt like a fluffy bathmat,
but tasted like chocolate milk.
It smelled like cinnamon that couldn’t come out of a candle,
but sounded like rain on the roof.
It made her heart pump with a new ferocity,
but gave her fingers silent shivers.
It erased every tiny tear drop she ever shed,
but fulled her with a peace and buoyancy that rivaled the stars.
It was a force that allowed her feet to be firmly gracing the ground,
but not floating off in the sky or pulled down into quicksand.
It was love of life,
but that the world wanted her, though did not need her.