MessageArchivewriting
0

Steady, patterned rain. Her eyes trailed the frames that spread towards the ceiling like a Spanish fan. A fiesta of windswept leaves danced behind the pane, sending wild droplets to break in finality against the glass, the applause.

Slow rhythms, methodical slides of bamboo wands. Soft charcoal interlacing. Cross in front, loop around, thread behind. The soothing stitch of a pearl landscape forming beneath her fingertips. She imagined her skin beneath it, draping it around her shoulders, wearing art.

Awakened by a cloak of autumn’s cool, she mused of magical wands to form a larger throw. She cradled a cup of steaming pumpkin in her palms. Aromas of orange and vanilla rose. She sipped the spice. Sweet flames melted into scents of warmed cider, baked nutmeg, and cinnamon.

She liked the way cinnamon sounded like a feeling, the way vanilla sounded like a song. She liked the feeling of the season, the welcomed crimson of the world.

Enchanté, she heard it say.

She felt like writing, like flying.

Listen
386217

"Falling in love with yourself first doesn’t make you vain or selfish, it makes you indestructible."

- Things I’ll teach my children (via humblebackbones)