Flash Fiction
It starts with the eyes. It always starts with the eyes. Deep, dark almond pools that expose the soul. Then later the hair. Rich amber hair, luscious like falling water wrapping the face of an angel.
An angel whose every detail is recorded meticulously. The full lips that give breath to life. The early evening light that shimmers on the skin, part covered by diaphanous greens and golden brocades. The delicate trailing hand that laps the willing waters of passion.
It ends without freedom. It ends in immortal nature. It ends with her mortal beauty, that is forever.
Rossetti’s Dream