taloritnt

the night is barely asleep as the stars flicker through the damp flood of street light. she sits and she watches them, the stars, hiding and winking. she is sitting on a windowsill, behind a curtain, hidden, but she isn’t winking.

her thoughts lace around the stars, and then the ribbon of thought leaps out, through the window. it is a ribbon of the night now. it is winding and twisting it’s way through cars and trashcans and young moonlight lovers and hobos. there’s a lot of red in the night time, she plays with this notion among the jumble of colours and incongruously lovely thoughts in her mind.

the ribbon continues it’s journey. it is now shooting upwards, exuding brilliance that nobody will see, it escalates, until it finds the highest peak. it weaves in and out of silent leaves, devoid of their chlorophyll. the ribbon is white, a brilliant white, the amalgamation of all colour. it is burning magnesium, placed against the midnight indigo. it is absorbing the sights, the splendor, before it returns to it’s home amid a cornucopia of other ludicrous and fanciful ideologies.

she is still watching. she is watching, waiting for the light to arrive. as the crimson creeps upon the indigo, she observes, illumination. the crimson, becoming slowly orange and then pink, and then bright yellow, like mouthfuls of lemon meringue pie. there’s a lot of red at sunrise, she holds this thought as her ribbon floats back to her, held on the zephyr. she looks back at the still maturing morn, and she absorbs it. she is fading now, slowly losing opacity, she is translucent, and her brilliant eyes, chocolate milk against the sunrise, fade as well. she fades, into the windowsill, into the curtain, into the bright. she has faded, but she will return. she is sure she will return.