Feb 3, 2015
White.
artificial brightness that burns the lid of her eyes, the sun reflecting from powdered flakes that drift, dust her lashes and burn her throat, blinking once twice thrice, palms shivering, shakings in the folds of her dress;; white is cold, brutally so, no color no life just the burn of it, the memory of it, the cold of it under her fingers, gnawed down deep in her bone lasting long after the ice and snow has given way to the ravenous bite of spring;; the herald of a new season welcoming.
