assembled for the fall
And with that, she began to walk: at 3:23 in the afternoon. As always.
Her pace was brisk and measured; her breath just short of fantastic. Her heart, racing only with itself, grew increasingly aware of its relentless thump: that hollowing thud, followed only by a vacuuous murmur.
Quilted, she found herself unable to unravel the tapestry that now shielded her from pain. But, oh such sweet and symphonic pain [if only the fading recollection of warmth would begin to illuminate what was now becoming a numbing addiction to repetitive searching]: would that unrelenting, fleeting vibrance, not be felt again for just one more afternoon?
The crisp wind shattered any illusion of warmth, presented by the constant gaze, from the distant gall of flame and cinder; drifting–as always–further and further away, with the spindles of the thickening brush.
Beads of sweat assembled for the fall.
Unknown to the longings of her heart, nor the pangs of their adjacent loins, her pace quickened; as the light–as always–drifted further.
The movement was almost over.