In her garden, cream and light green decked the bed, the pebbled path that led there was uneven and laced across with shade.
He was baking, just as she was baking in the sun; lemons, ripe and golden weighing down the tree.
Except for a lone dove cooing and five songbirds chirping, the air was quiet, with just a slight breeze that smelled of nothing much at all. And to her left, the concrete wall, like grey school trousers; faded, stained and browned with dust.
The breeze picked up and rustled through, more birds came to join the song.
As his hands moved – just like the breeze strips leaves off from the trees – they flew, then dropped, then lay dead still. His hands across her face, it muffled out the song, and on his skin the distinct smell of wood fires from afar.
A dust storm rose as he dug the hole, and the sun hid its face, taking its warmth from her. Once hot, now cold, it crept against her skin.
There once was a boy, who found a girl, all rolled up and tied just like a parcel. And with his mouth he gnawed, with his fingers pulled, until he managed to undo her. Once white, now dirty and browned along the edges. She laid upon the ground, like scroll-work, like art.
Waisted. Forgotten. Until retrieved... Find her keeper.
If you've been in the sky, you'd know, that passing up above – too high, too far, so small – you cannot see her down there. To you, she doesn’t even exist. Well, not until you fall.
Find her, keep her.
