She dreams of the black and white crisp of art in a hotel room,

Of the last drop of red in a crystal glass.

Of trails at sunrise and days spent free.

She chopped her freedom for trends, her Indian spirit defeated — she’ll never earn another feather.

Or feel the soft golden sunrise seep through her window after its hiked mountaintops.

Or wander the docks in the cool humid air of a foreign country.

Did she give up her dreams?

She asks as she sits in her yellow room, speaking for the first time in what feels like years.

Trying to reach that little girl from her past,

The one who sat for hours, any time she could, to tell a story she hadn’t heard before.

The one who knew what she wanted from life.

The girl that was just beginning to dream.

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