Waiting For Her

~•°∆Constant∆°•~

Somewhere in the endless sky, a tree sits on a chunk of dirt and rock. A pond resides by this tree. The chunk of land while appearing to be full of life, has had it's last breath of life stolen long ago.

Under this tree sits a woman, seemingly in her mind twenties, and yet those are her only interpretable features through the blue whisp of a fog surrounding her.

She's sitting alone, an almost peaceful setting if there wasn't a lingering feeling of somberness in the surrounding area.

Another piece of this picture is that the woman is listening to music. She's been listening to the same song on repeat, for  years, decades, or maybe even centuries.

She doesn't know. She only knows that she's waiting, waiting for a change, waiting for her Nightingale to come home. She can only hope her Nightingale still knows her way back, or worse, she's found a new home. Nothing could trouble her more than knowing that her Nightingale might've been someone's Dove, Hummingbird, or worse, someone's Swan. These thoughts swirled in what was left of her mind constantly, and she couldn't part with them despite her efforts.

The song she was forced to listen to didn't help either

The song

The constant stream of words

Words that should've lost their meaning along with everything else in this place. It wasn't even much of a song, more of a poem really. It was always sung in a whisper.

Alone in a lost land
A lost land without you
A land with no meaning; no time
A lacking land without you
My love; My Nightingale
I wait for you, to know
That I didn't want to part, even at death

Those words hurt so much, and they'll continue to hurt, forever onwards, until her Nightingale comes home.