but she. she is the notebook that holds nothing but torn pages. it's blank, but ripped, and solemn and gasping for breath. she is scribbled on and erased, crossed out and curvy.
she is the roaring of the sea. she is the crashing of the waves among ocean shores and rocky boundaries. she soaks everything with misery and a melancholy stain.
and she, she is the vivid dark night and the dreamy intoxicated stars. she hangs in the sky, illuminating everything with the brightness of her moon. she laughs a howl of wolves, and cries a song of crickets.
and she is walking amongst the fields.
while the golden flower is buried beneath them.
