Fragment:I met her and she was beautiful

Her lips were pink pieces of rose petals, soft as the movements of dama de noche’s revealing in the twilight. Her breasts were clutched that she would not even be able to breath. She was constantly touching her pointed chin with her thumb and it wandered with the entire hand on her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Her hair was as black as the silhouettes of trees as the evening reached its magnitude of shooting stars. Eyelashes, long. Cheeks, pearl-like, but cleaner. She wore leggings, black leggings, and red palda which had reached only her legs. She wore a lose flesh top with indefinable ruffles. She had a loose hair, black hair filled with uncertain trails which were tangled as she stood up from her wrinkled beddings.
 
She believed nothing had happened. It was just the present which kept her alive and breathing with her nostrils brushed with the polluted sting of the wind. She closed her head and remembered nothing. She was moving her hands like the behavior of the waters, ebbing of the shore, leaving scattered sandy particles flat on the shoreline. She painted her memory; they were all black, dull and become more and more tragic, and incomprehensible. The painting was the color of her afternoon, a swirling dream of fluctuating feelings, her deep, translucent flow of thoughts. Her paintings were of dark soot of graphic abundance, like clouds, and splatters of kerosene on the metro road – acrylic tensions scraping the canvas, ready to engulf the past, her only color, her only theme.

***end of fragment***

--Archie