The rings under her eyes were as dark as her jumper,
As bleak as her own outlook,
Her optimism shattered.
She was smiling earlier,
That beautiful wide smile that she always had on her face,
When she'd discovered something brilliant.
Her face was porcelain, gleaming as she turned.
The pain was quick and sudden,
As was your descent to the floor.
The wind rushed past her,
She looked so small,
So desperate.
You could feel yourself screaming,
Panicking,
Mind going blank,
As she fell, gliding past the clouds like a rag-doll,
Until she was just a small purple pin prick in the sky.
She was gone.
It was too late. Your hands fumbled too much, you couldn't open the door.
You could feel your world turning dark again,
Like it was before she came,
In a flurry of blue and purple and honey coloured hair
And white paper flying everywhere.
She was alive.
The words pierced you like a beam of light
Hitting you,
Like some sort of wave
Crashing through your veins like a drug.
She was alive.
Hero,
She called you.
You didn't believe it.
She was smiling again,
That beautiful smile,
Grazed your cheek,
Delicately,
Softly,
Gratefully.
You thought you'd lost her,
You thought you were alone again.
But she came back,
That blue and purple flurry of a woman,
Who'd danced into your life one winter,
And brought the colour of optimism,
And turned theories into poetry,
Was the best winter flurry you'd ever seen.