she was melancholy.
her skin was made of sleepless nights and endless days.
her routine, her clothes, her perfume. everything about her, inspired by the dust she had in her brain, created by the nostalgia of those nights where the cause of her insomnia wasn't loneliness but another person's gentle touch and company.
woke up early in the morning and had a cup of black coffee looking at the window. the sound of raindrops was the only thing she wanted to hear while she read a book an old lover gave her many years ago.
messy hair, shoulders only decorated by one string of the pyjama top, barefoot.
madness.
