I'll find you in the morning sun, and when the night is new

As white as the moonlight, sitting on a bed of flowers, a girl waits.

She does not twist or stretch, nor itch or budge. 

She is in a paralysis, sitting, waiting, with her legs crossed in a pretzel

and her hands perched expectantly.

A froth of ghostly white silk clings to her limbs like ligaments connecting muscle to muscle.  These cob webs-so strong in structure, yet so fragile to human touch-steadies her, holds her in a place of dullness and stupor.

A layer of dust sprinkles upon her rose petal skin.  She begins to fade, to tarnish, and that once porcelain doll begins to chip away, piece by piece. 

Her once cherry red lips arched into a smile full of tenderness, falters. 

Her once luminous halcyon eyes dim, and is replaced by a hazy glaze. 

As the sun and moon rises and falls, shadows of both light and dark wash over her tangled locks, faltering face and frozen limbs.  With each day, it works to wash away the gathering dust and break through the closing blinds.

They whisper to her in french, softly singing the chuchotements de la lune. 

In the corner of her right eye a crystallized tear waits for the moment of release; it waits for the rush of pain, and the race to wet each line of exhaustion.

For she waits for a helping hand, a hand to come and take her away, a hand that does not come, and so her heart, the beat of a grandfather clock, ticks for the moment of recognition and release.

It does not come, nor will it ever, but she continues to wait with a pierced heart and a suspended life as the world spins madly on.

Suddenly something within her fading awareness drops the veil of illusion, sending a twinge through her limbs, and attacking each with a thousand needles. 

Her eyes move from side to side, the crystallized tear trickles down her face, and each limb slowly brakes away from the restraints of gossamer mesh. 

The sunlight washes away all dust and bathes her in a golden hue; she blinks, takes a deep breath, and rests her hand atop of her breast in one swift movement.

Within that millisecond of pain, her heart matured and expanded to nourish a love greater and more powerful than the racing blood and normality of mundane life. 

Her heart was no longer a machine beating for each breath of existence or for the regular plea of acceptance and reciprocating love.

The stains of tears, and heart that chimed as ancient and deep as a grandfather clock, encompassed a love so ethereal as the love for, self.