Shooting star

Diamond-shattered, street lantern eyes. She's alight again, all flickering slivers of wisdom that's seen into the depths of the night.

She's not the type to spin fickle words into a fragmented web of lies. She hears everything disjointedly: in colours and smells, and often in words that aren't all they're cracked up to be; in sparks, incandescent and burning a thousand crimson tales. She has nothing to lose because she has nothing to gain. She knows that in the end, we're nothing, we're running blindsided, and we're alone. And nothing will ever be what you dreamed it will.

She's slowly spinning cream thread for that dress. Nothing aerodynamically stable, but it doesn't need to be. One day, she'll belong to the sky, again. She'll be home.