There is a woman on the horizon— a woman rising. The bones in her chest, branching, like the spread of leaves across empty skylines. And the light of the sun has found love in the scope of her skin, though it be weak and in need of regeneration— a burst of something calm and the burning off, of all the things that made her feel so small.
But a woman is a growing thing… one that doesn’t stop. And though she may falter, her years of growth will bring shade to those sun-burned places. And in her old age, she will no longer seek to shelter those who need it, but to be a place of rest, for the ones who have already been regenerated.
Love is where you sleep when you no longer need to.