Ava Chapagain

Everyone is lost for words like you.

She drifts in ethereal grace and tender puerility, a figure of the moon and gracefulness shielded from society and its anguished rage, dissolving. What does it mean,

Your beauty is trenchant glass, incisive in shattered, pellucid when shifted in radiant sunlight. A

lucid hue concealed, clear color hidden entranced in the sixth sense. The sky desiccates its

prismatic sigh, once before the grass, so vividly green. Grey clouds and the accent of petrichor,

warmth and cold converge in a marriage of need.

To be abandoned?

To wither?