nny | (no subject)

The sky starts falling on a Sunday morning, just after the buses begin running. It's specks at first, tiny starbursts of blue turning to powdering, turning to drifts. It's stark colour against her black leather jacket and she grins, wide and helpless, as people run around her like chickens, like the saying goes.

Above her is slowly fading; oils to watercolour to canvas and still falling. There will be consequences, there cannot but be consequences, but that's why it's so important that in this moment, this one just now, she sink to her knees and lie back in the endless beautiful blue.

If there was ever a time to make angels...