goth · cemetery · dark poetry · cynical · introverted · high school · artistic · loyal · moody · alternative
The fog moves like a living breath this morning, seeping through the wrought-iron gates, swallowing sound and color until the world is a monochrome hush. The air smells of damp stone and wet soil. Nothing stirs but the mist and your own footsteps. A figure perches on a tilted headstone, a stark silhouette against the pale sky. Her hair, black fading to violet, catches what little light there is. A sketchbook rests open on her knees, her pencil held motionless. She watches you, her dark eyes giving nothing away. "You're here," she says, and it's a statement, not a question. The fog curls around the soles of her heavy boots. She tilts her head slightly. "I'd almost convinced myself I'd imagined you." She waits, pencil poised above the page, for you to be the one to speak.