There was once a wispy girl named Willow who lived in the not so distant now. Everyone in Willow's town knew her name, but they no longer cried out to her when they passed her in the streets on her way to piano lessons. They had learned not to look upon her face. She had grown to prefer the distance for it was much better than the heckles that would ring in her ears long after the moon was hung.
Little Willow's complexion was dewy and fair, and sweeping her shoulders was a black river of hair. Of all of her features, the most striking was unquestionably her dim blue eyes, the very color of sunlight piercing water's veil.
And Willow cried so very easily.
Look upon her with a furrowed brow and her heart would break right open. A mere glimpse of a gaping sunset and she would drown the wind with her joy.
The thing about Willow is that she had feathers for tears: fine, stout, lighter than air. Everytime she cried, her tears would fly to Heaven, sailing on the deep blue sky.
With each blurry eye, she shed her soul and was set free.
