• Voices. Thousands of them. They call me into the night. The street is black and bare, no one around for miles. The wind is strong; it lifts me high into the indigo marshmallow-clouds. My eyes are searching rapidly for what is not there, and my heart is yearning for a kindred soul.
    My wings have withered almost to nothing. I am falling. Falling to the bottom. I cannot see. The air is thick and tastes of stale hate. My fingers raw from scraping the surface, there is still no light. I hear nothing but the voices. I am unworthy, they whisper. Whispers turn into screams. Silent screams. I am on the edge.
    A hand reaches out. It pulls me out of the grime. The voices have gone. You are the only voice left. The only voice worth hearing. You mend my tattered wings. Kiss my torn hands. Love me.
    Love. What is the meaning of love? The word simply gets thrown into any sentence to make it look better, but it has no meaning. "I love you" had lost its meaning. Hands had lost their tenderness. Hearts had lost their will. The light inside me had dimmed. Only until you picked up the last piece of my shattered heart. My kindred soul. I search no more. I have found light. I have found love. I have found you.