She is looking out the window
again. Wishing for there to be
no window. That she could feel the
tumbles of pittering rain droplets as they
run with the wind. On her face. She
thinks on how her autumn-harvest
hair would plaster against her pinked-out
cheeks and jaw and lips. She
watches, seemingly unable to forget her
evening plans. It's down to her mother's
black silk or the leopard-skin
gloves, but both are ripped and she
doesn't know how to sew. She
isn't tired. She's exhilarated. Ready to
feel the rain and wind and trees sail
across her face and down her neck. She
sits and watches through glass panes as skies
whip clouds like batter.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
She is looking out the window
again. Wishing for there to be
no window. That she could feel the
tumbles of pittering rain droplets as they
run with the wind. On her face. She
thinks on how her autumn-harvest
hair would plaster against her pinked-out
cheeks and jaw and lips. She
watches, seemingly unable to forget her
evening plans. It's down to her mother's
black silk or the leopard-skin
gloves, but both are ripped and she
doesn't know how to sew. She
isn't tired. She's exhilarated. Ready to
feel the rain and wind and trees sail
across her face and down her neck. She
sits and watches through glass panes as skies
whip clouds like batter.
