With her forehead resting in between my shoulder and the sky, I gently run my fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ear full in the knowledge that she finds it annoying, I smile. Times like these have never felt so eloquently silent. As the politeness of the harsh northern wind takes the words from our chapped lips, it smiles as it moves on to the next wanton victim who’s face is already screwed up against the season, filled with thoughts of warm sheets and kind lovers. I could spend days in this preoccupation. She would fall asleep within the hour, giving me the chance to reflect on how such marvel could be missed by blind eyes with false lenses to enhance the mirrored image in the ocean. How could someone feel such a passion and drive to hate what lies in front, when before them sits the shimmering falsetto image of an alternate perfection? A painfully fragile affair, one that you can’t help but want but one that would shatter at an absent inference, known only in her world. One that seems invisible to the projector herself. She is a warped video camera: the pictures she takes in reality are breathtaking, but once put through her twisted designs they turn out misleading and false to the true existence. I hope the damage is temporary.
