it’s a strange kind
of comfort.
the gloominess
of the overcast
sky, the blanket
of sadness that
covers her, the feeling
of aloneness
surrounding her, the inkling
of hope.
she sits, her eyes straying towards the gray horizon / there’s not much for her to do.
she laughs, although it doesn’t seem quite real / she’s not an actress.
she smiles, a sad sort of smile / wistful, you would say.
she’s alone and outside and freezing and she can’t really feel her toes anymore but there’s this strange comfort in it all and her nose is running like crazy but she doesn’t mind because it’s so beautiful, the world.
that inkling of hope in her, that’s her heart telling her to not give up.
she finds a unique beauty in things that make her sad,
in the way she feels sad,
because sometimes being happy
isn’t her kind of thing.
she’s alone, not lonely.
sometimes, lonely.
not now.
she is.
