petrichor
a cross-legged anomaly of contradictions, her brown eyes drooping but awake. thoughts nestle like cuckoos in the little crow's nest that sits like a lopsided crown atop her head. the bed is still warm from the snow angel-like prints her dreams compelled her to create. it is early and faintly blue, and cold but not chilly. the kind that makes you want to laze and slip in and out of consciousness. she rubs the palms of her hands along the lengths of her plump arms and heaves a little sigh. she wonders how the day will play out today; she is still getting used to the aloneness of a new city and a new sun. a few short steps and her fingers flex in swirling steam from the water that cleanses their current inky-ness, itching to recolour themselves in the fresh story that today would be. she worries whether it will bring a smile to the ones she yearns to reach out to; she is still to learn the nuances of loving herself. then, as the hem of her light blue dress kisses the