Her eyes hold the images she sees in an intense gaze. Looking into them, her soul appears empty. She is watching, waiting. She touches the window glass to feel the coolness of the rain outside. She breathes in the smell of rain and holds it. Remebering and pondering, past and future. Only to be captured in the present. She grabs at every moment every second, trying not to miss what she left behind or what she is heading towards. She exhales. Her sigh releases her breath like fog onto the glass. She hears silence. Then she listens to it. She steps into the fading rain. It raps her in sticky mist as she sinks to her ground of weeds. Her garden. Her flowers may never come, but the weeds have their own beauty. She looks to them in hope and wonders can they be something more? What you want and what you get are worlds apart. And she knows that true appreciation is liking what you get, not just what you want.
She rolls over onto her stomache and lets her fingers feel the movement in the ground. There is no one near. She breathes her secrets into the drying air. Her happiness, saddness, loneliness, dreams and hopes. They scatter like little butterflies carrying her away in pieces. The good thing about speaking out loud is pretending that someone is listening.
Her ears perk at the sound of russelling grass. She sees nothing. She shuts her eyes to imagine that someone is there waiting for her. Watching over her.
She dreams her little butterflies will carry her message to angels in the sky.
A tear slips from her eye lid. She hopes for the angels but has no real faith in them.
She dreams because that is the best thing she can do. She smiles because she still has those dreams.
She spares a thought for the emptiness and the silence... before she shakes it off.
She rises from the ground to face the world.
"There is nothing like returning to a place that remians unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." - Nelson Mandela