You took steps guided by the fingertips of a blind stranger who disguised himself as the wind and whispered quivering truths in your ear. The stranger became a storm, running rampant through your thoughts; entering your ear and freeing himself through your lips.
He fluttered through your gut, entangling organs and pulling them toward your lower back, impressing upon you a sense of impending something. A sense of quivering truths. Your mind fanes clarity while whirlwinds of his whispers wrapped you in equivocated ideas, understanding the world through the fog that he placed between your eyes and your mind. You believed that you were slave only to your passions, but a wind became the deviant intruder, immune to your defenses and unseen by your own conscience. You believed it was just a part of yourself that had been hidden and awoken after so many dormant years, but this was an infection that spread to every limb and sank your organs deep into your bowel, neglecting the well-being. He saw a girl through the lens of your eyes, but he fogged the green and brown marble windows to your mind, and from then on you saw a girl through the lens of whispered rhyme. The wind echoed through barren caves within your veins; he said as he adjusted your focus to the date, curling himself off your tender lips: "it's just not the right time."
She looked at the clock reflecting in those eyes; blurry and backwards, it said 12:09.
