She had dark hair, curled into an updo that she kept poking and prodding.
Persistently.
Her eyes were so dark brown that her pupils blended in. They seemed distressed, flitting from one end of the room to the other.
Constantly.
Her hands were restless, going to her hair then the hem of her dress then to each other, wrestling for which would wring which.
Endlessly.
YOU ARE READING
As It Is
PoetryShort bits of writing I come up with in my everyday life - I try to see the world as pretty
