I was born with it. This tingle. It would burn whenever I met somebody who was in pain; it was like it knew something. Something I didn’t but could learn. And each time that ole’ burn, it was right. I would learn something nothing else could teach me. Teach me real good. About life and love, about the sun and the moon. About dawn and eve, so good til I tried my best not to wonder about anything else. Until I met him. He was a little of everything in a box he didn’t fit in. It was a box the tingle in me tried to burn down, but I got burned instead. Burned.
I wanted to should have known better, but I didn’t. I just stayed there. Looking around for some clue, some clue that the box really wasn’t a box like I thought. More like a chain. A chain I wanted that burn to sear through. So I could peek over the wall and get a glimpse of the man I knew he was. I had met just in time before and cried with, made love to, had a baby with, celebrated joys with, saw the world with, listened abroad with; the man I loved. Until he left me, standing there looking around alright. He left me with nothing more than my tingle, morphed into a tickle. A tickle that waved its hand over my present state and pressed into feel. To mock and mold a new feeling inside me, one that told a story of my own pain. Sparkle.