Lover waiting, her eyes were fixed on the forlorn glow of lonely, orphaned headlights. Tropics to desert and sands to sea, her palms waxed serene; cold as the city and quiet as the shore.
Open mouthed to the march of Sundays, the deepest swell drew herself upon a thread of seasons; braided in thirst and yearning, flowing as a river of colored ghosts. She emerged from the gradient wash as she did when she first arrived; naked, pure, and colorless. Skimming through the water with her fingers deeper in the flood, the trees knelt oceanic and the rivers were a wash of blood.
"I can't live here, not like this."
