Wild At Heart

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.