She is to exist as one of sharp wit and soft features.
Her eyes glint from the midnight corners of her dwelling, here beside me, but not yet present.
A broad but angular brow tightens as she places down her book. For a moment she is warped absently to the realm of meaning between what she had just read and what is.
The slender muscles on the nape of her neck falter.
Warm locks of hair swing downward and hang ever so slightly, they drift back and forth suspended- like cut puppet strings – from her head.
She sways slightly back and forth, her shoulder blades suspended from her back like smooth rocks being brought fourth from a silt riverbed.
Her forehead balances on her central digit, and lists to and fro before her ear and frecked cheek fall against my leg.
The weight of gravity presses down on the two of us.



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