The redress of her hair is a yearly trick. The disheveled strands become the land in the promise of her hair growing wild again.
Out of the storm finds me in the quietude of the woods with no paths to anoint me lost. Only the soft under touch playing at my feet inviting my mind to walk on by itself.
The intricacy of natural balance is where to find beauty. The venations have bled and soaked onto the ground to leave her partially complete
She knows this. Others bloomed too full and too fast and now lay in the backdrop of her imperfection.
Raw as in my most tender most state.
Thoughts blot and pool, crimson designs fill all the refinement my words can't meet. Fluid life springs and wells in delicate abandon and I will always be lost to myself losing myself.
Clarity doesn't crisp until the delicacy piecing together our focus unravels.