Wild At Heart
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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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