I spoke, waiting for the prize, like the ace of spades in a deck, like the sky beautifully bruised at sunset, like snowflakes melting on warm cheeks, like pages foxed by hands that loved them, like stars dazzling beneath devoted eyes, like a girl waiting to be proved guilty for a crime she never did. I kept waiting. What did I become? Nothing really. Just the joker, facing his own, in a crowd of fifty-two. Just the sea, feared most by the setting sun after performing his romantic show. Just the snow-laden canopies of a winter evening, hiding behind the endless white. The crooked corner of a once-read page, which absorbed the touch of love or rage. The vast night sky, nothing without her stars, forgotten because of the speeding cars. I knew what I was from the very start, and I spoke too soon, but was never heard. Never the showman, always the show, selling bodies, pitching for unburnt souls, just to hide from him who saw all. And then; then the earth turned, nights folded into mornings...