She's a whirr; not quite woman, not quite wind.
Lost, nowhere yet everywhere
wandering the earths expanse within her own mind.
The known world only pokes upon her shoulder,
the normal life not even a breath in her lungs.
Her movements so light they almost slide through the air, invisible.
Frost glides along her skin, she is choking on the salt water, he is the only one that sees.
But he only sees through a tiny window, such a tiny window, a window of frost in the dark.
So much is hidden, so much is lost in those eyes, so dark so dark,
dark as the stars, dark as the sun.
The salt stains the window, stains it blue as the sea, blue as her deep eyes.
Those eyes haunted him, leaving imprints in his words.
Her head in his lap, he tries to weave flowers in her hair, such a soft, lingering touch.
Cold escapes from her mouth when he kissed her; winter.
Their lips sung with the color of ripe rasberries; summer.
But her head, her head was somewhere else, the lingering touch all that lasted.
She was forever lost. Lost everywhere and nowhere. Always winter, always summer.
Always closed, but never empty. A locked box full of secrets.
He longs to open, his fingers reach, she turns away.
And now his eyes are red and hazy, he's lost himself within her folds.
But the paper crinkled, the notes began to fade.
Her whispers of "always" and "forever" drifted away as the wind picked up, howling outside the window
Now all that there is, is him.
She was withered away, she had been blown out.
But now he takes his coat from the hook, and prepares to brave this storm.
It feared around him, the wind wrapping his coat round his body as we would wind a watch
It armored him, protected him, pierced her terror, hid his.
She was the wind, she was the stars.
She wrapped her beauty around her, drew a cloak over her face, saving her from prying eyes,
Keeping a film between them.
And the flowers he so carefully braided flew out,
their colors faded and gray, crumbling in competition with her ferocity, her beauty.
And it happened all again like before,
the storm raged on
while helplessly he stood
until the winds only whispered,
until the film lifted,
and her eyes were visible once more.
Yet still, frost clouded the edges.
Winter's chill, again a ghost among them.
But for this, he realized he could not stay.
And so, he took his coat from the hook and chose to brave the peace outside.
And sometimes, at the afternoon barstools or the lonesome church pews,
you'll hear them whisper-
"She's a whirr; not quite woman, not quite wind."