26 May Flickerlight, By Angelina Farag
The room holds its breath in the flicker—
Light that lingers just long enough to tempt,
To carve silhouettes but never truths.
A mere tease:
Fingertips brushing waistbands;
A figure shifting in the half-glow;
Beauty haunting the edges of sight—
Close enough to ache for, never long enough to hold.
A window opens—
A breeze, a breath against her neck.
The flicker sends a raging pulse through her skull,
Yet she savours every flash,
Clinging to each thin shard of light,
Hoping the next will burn just a second longer.
Each flicker makes her heart pause—
A light she can step toward,
Certain, sudden, alive,
Whispers of intimacy amid the uncertainty,
Leaving her breathless before dimming once more.
She gathers the fleeting images
Of a beautifully distorted room,
Unsure of what it truly carries,
Yet certain of the pull in her chest,
Certain she wants what the shadows withhold.
In the flashes,
A future glimmered bright—
Bright enough for her to crave a steadier flame,
Something she wouldn’t have to chase through the dark.
So she knelt,
Palms stinging against the cold floor,
Felt for sticks,
Coaxed a spark—
And finally lit the room.
In the steady glow,
The haunting beauty thinned and cracked.
In its place, a chill,
A hollow stillness,
Only the shadow of what could have been—
A ghost her eyes invented in the dark.