I could say she had tired eyes.
The lines that wrapped around them told me so. And the way her gaunt skin tightened when she cried, told me so.
But who am I to say so. It is not a wee bit of a screech or a placid mans walk. But it certainly isn’t what it is.
From the young child down the street who didn’t even think to speak
To the laughing mans grin who didn’t even wait to stop
She just whirled around here – over there – under somewhere
Oh look, she’s on the stairs
Breaching the very essence on what made her likeable in the young child judgment and the undeceived old mans framework.
“Hey, it’s here!” The little one giggled.
“It always is.” The old man replied.
Slowly it crippled. And each second adds more weight to their already buckling bodies.
Just like now. Reading this. It adds more – of something.
More of her.
And her tired eyes and quick wit.
It adds more time.
Written by A.Writes