in dreams there is truth

In the span of breath there was a girl whose hair rivaled dust and eyes that spoke of the core of soft sunsets. Neither, in the end, would suit. She was a thing of quiet nights and empty alleys; leaking pipes and storefront apartments. But still, it remained.

Yin remained.

Even after that night.

So, in the breath taken inward, she sits on the bench in the park, feet trailing dirt and eyes trickling after. It is dusk, gloom and shadow, and still she is out, without orders and without motive--

A choice made. A choice of her own.