The Incomplete Embers of Tiraten: pt. I

The feeling of the sun over the quietly serene view from a pocket on Northcliff hill was a jarring contrast to the busy morning she had. Her attempt to move from the parked car and onto the rocky embankment lacked the grace she tried so hard to wear, so he held his hand out and their palms met.

This was the first time she took a look at them. His clean nails, though slightly overgrown, were very well shaped.

Feminine.

Strong.

Beautiful.

Everything about his nature was essentially captured in the way his hands looked, felt and worked like art. The pair perched on a rock shaded by a canopy of vines dressed in wildflowers. Slowly, they scanned the land spanning from the west on their left, over to the north ahead and finally, their eyes resting upon the high rise buildings of town on the right.

Time tapers off into an interstellar stillness.

A deafening silence settles,

Rendering her bare,

To feel everything with the intensity of a thousand suns

And all at once.

Her heart pounds,

And so returns

The sound.

He rummaged in his bag for the book he’d been fawning over since dawn- The Prophet, by a Khalil Gibran fellow she’d never heard of before. With a childlike energy, he raced through the aged pages in search of a piece to read, and before she knew it, his voice- much like pure butter, smoothed over everything else in earshot. She was lost in the lack of gravity once more.

And in that moment, she felt a conviction in her being, a mound of lead as heavy as words unsaid. This man beside her, this being of light would bring her to the love that would descend to her roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

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Writer, photographer and coffee enthusiast, weaving worlds into existence, one story at a time | Pronouns: They/Them

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Noma Ntshingila

Writer, photographer and coffee enthusiast, weaving worlds into existence, one story at a time | Pronouns: They/Them