I trace the scars on my inner fingers absently. I sit on my heels, eyes focused on a far away vision of absolute beauty.
I watch a geisha of perfect ivory stand beneath a cherry blossom tree. She stands demurely with eyes downcast behind a hibiscus umbrella. She wears a pin of a tiny marigold frog.
I hear the cascading thrum of a koto. I hear the metered crash of a taiko. I hear the feathery ripple of a shakuhachi.
I see virtue in her shape. Abashed, I slowly stand. Under the weight of months, my straightening is slow.
My thumb absently traces the tattoo on my right hand. The realization of the idea of the concept of a vision.
Every time I envision my cherry blossom tree, now, she is there. My perfect geisha twinning my perfect scene.
Framed in hues of the most lovely red. The most haunting scarlet. Brushed with elegant pink and staunch brown.
I bow my head under the burden of joy. I am filled to bursting with appreciation and inspiration.
Remember your geisha, whisper the scars on my fingers.
Remember your cherry blossom tree.
12:31 a.m. - 2014-06-27
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