Two figures stand in the morning kitchen, neither reaching for the other's hand. The window is open; the air is close, heavy with the scent of earth after last night’s storm. On the table, an apple sits where it fell from the fruit bowl, bruised on one side. Each looks at the other as if through a pane of glass—so near, so distant. Even the words that form on their lips seem to dissolve, unfinished, as if the hush between them had grown roots.
In the old cities, beneath arching bridges, merchants would lay out spices in careful piles. Cinnamon bark curled like secret letters, heaped beside the fruit of the pomegranate—its skin thick, bitter, promising something impossible beneath. The peel cracks under a thumb, a familiar sound in foreign markets. Inside, seeds glisten, clustered close, but each is encased and untouched by the other, shining in their separate chambers. Long ago, in the dusk of bazaars, lovers paused by a barrel of cherries, picking fruit without meeting each other's gaze, their shoulders brushing, their intentions unreadable.
On distant mountain slopes, a vine curls around stone outcrops, holding fast against the wind. Its clusters hang heavy, shaped by months of sunlight and sudden frost. In late summer, farmers gather these, staining their hands as the juice seeps into the lines of their skin. At the fire’s edge, they press the fruit, silent and steady, their movements practiced but never shared. Old songs tell of how the first wines were made not in joy, but in longing—one cup poured, never tasted together. The vessel left at the threshold, an offering the other would find only when the giver had gone.
In distant northern forests, a deer trails through the undergrowth, pausing by the fallen leaves where mushrooms have pushed up after rain. Among the moss, a sprig of sumac brushes against her flank; its cones powder the air. Once, a hunter watched as two animals circled one another, neither yielding ground, the dusk closing in around them. He pressed the blade of his knife into a piece of old leather, a tool handed down, its grip darkened by years of use. The tool waits on a shelf, marked by the hands that made it, waiting for words that never fully land.
Some nights, the wind blows from the desert, thick with the promise of rain that never reaches the ground. It passes over fields where beets lie beneath the soil, their shapes hidden, their sweetness unknown until unearthed. In the farmhouse, a jar of preserves sits unopened, its seal unbroken on the pantry shelf. The label has faded, but the date can still be made out—a year when someone hoped a taste would be shared. The jar waits, stubborn in its silence, as though holding a secret it fears to speak.
Today, you might press a seed between your fingers, letting its juice stain your skin. You could set out cherries in a bowl, waiting to see if anyone reaches for one beside you. Consider leaving a small gift on a threshold, or picking up a tool that belonged to someone else, feeling the grip worn smooth by their hands.
Today's lucky color is DarkRed.
Lucky Color: DarkRed — #8B0000Choose what you will uncover and what you will leave waiting.
A gesture unspoken may still shape the day.