She doesn't pain her nails black like she used to not have to pretend she didn't believe in the rainbow. Now her delicate fingers end in an innocent pink decided to restore the flowers in the jar.
They hold the colored pens again, moving them without pause but without reason. They spring from the life they thought they had lost in the middle of the dream. They no longer hold Sunday's blanket, but hold the petals from the flowers destroyed by the winter. They freeze without fear, because they don't try to avoid the inevitable and play next to the wind.
Her hands don't hide in the pockets of her jeans, they go out and wave with incertainty but without remorse. They don't get lost between the dark corners of her purse, but they find the way that the color of her lipstick draw. They don't limit themselves to touch the old books in her shelf, but they also grab the novels that talk about new moons.
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