Her gown had not been worn very often. One could still see the
tedious handiwork that covered it. Her hair was let loose on her crimson face.
And her face. Poets could stare at her for hours and not write, for what are
words, but pebbles.
She stood tall, heavily cloaked in the snowy landscape, waiting
for him with bated breath. And with every second that passed, her anxiety
seemed to get the better of her.
He was not coming, not anytime soon. And heavens knew where he was
in this country torn by war.
Wounded, shattered, scarred, lost in the snow, or worse- dead. She
would never know for sure until he arrived.. and all she could do till that
moment was wait – wait as his distressed lover.
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