Wild At Heart

Wild At Heart

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Oct 15, 2016
She isn't a graceful person; nor is she a Sunday morning in the middle of May. She is a Tuesday night in the depth of November; she is the broken window that whistles with the wind and chills your soul. Her bones crack on a nightly basis, she falls from elegance with a dull thud, and apologises for her awkward sorrow. She believes that she doesn't belong around people; that she belongs to all the leap years, impermanent and momentary. The way lightness and darkness mixes under her skin swirls a storm in her soul. You don't see the Lightning, but you hear the echoes. And all it took her to have me wrapped around her little finger was one autumn.
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