In the hush of the quiet morning, her heart beating inside the hanging of her ribs and spine, the woman gathered her cowl close to her neck against the cold air. She was never one made for keeping company with brambles and stones; her heart belonged aloft, clinging to the currents of air with feathers as soft as silk. She patiently bided her time, visiting her brethren daily, until she could make her return to the skies.
This morning I fell in love with ink all over again. I stray from it and grow lonely. After a while I determine I need to return, and, upon doing so, realize I should never have left to begin with.