She was a woman.
No -- a girl.
Or maybe, a girl-woman. A human being trapped between two finales. One of childhood, and one of blossoming. A poppy lost in a city.
She doned a red coat, tied tight around her waist. It was not a safe shade, like burgundy, but it was firetruck red, reaching down and grazing her coco au latte knees.
It made her stand out, in the grey morning, like an actress engaged in a sorrowful soliloquy.
A melting image, waiting to cross the newly baptised street.
Black, surrounding white polka dots, guarding her from the impeding rain, rested on her delicate left shoulder. If there were tears, no one would know. From here, the hand-shaped stain - a reminder of her prison- was non-existant. And yet it taunted her, depriving her of her dreams.
How beautiful she was.
Chocolate waves tucked behind one small ear, the dampened curls caressing her cheeks.
She stood, still, silent, creeping closer.
Her eyes were downturned, lashes dusting freckles. As she drew closer, some unknown force caused her to look quickly upward, revealing a pair of dazzling emeralds. For but a moment, a too short moment, she watched -- no -- saw, and then she was a receding image.
Just a poppy lost in a city.
A girl-woman, beautiful in her sorrow, tranquil in the downpour.
How he loved her.
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