Love Hurts
Love Hurts
The air stream was strong, and the wind whistled through open windows; it was the dead of night and the street looked as lifeless and forlorn as ever. The cobbles still remained unscathed, as if nobody had wanted to pace onto that territory. The dense gardens of boarded up houses lay untouched, whilst houses which were occupied had the same warmth glow that homes have, like the homes where families live in and play in their gardens for the duration of summer. Although this convivial street had lit up windows, only one street light remained operational, all the same it still flickered intermittently, sometimes leaving the street in obscurity for hours, and then there will be that unambiguous buzzing hum and then become ignited once more. Below the unpredictable entity, an overrun decomposing bench rested, planted on all its four legs, plants whirled and twirled in the region of the object, in and out of pavements, and clung to fences which sheltered houses from the hours of darkness. Underneath laid trampled flowers. It appeared that they had been compressed by the mystifying figure who sat there. As a rustling sound occurred and then a rock-strewn clank, as though someone had kicked a stone, the figure looked up. She had delicately chiselled features that sat firmly on an ethereal fair face, and held the most mysterious, passionate eyes, grey and musky, with a distinctive sparkle. Despite this, however, they looked as though they had cried many nights. Looking up further en route for the stars, a tear dropped off her curved chin, her air of mystery gained a murky aura almost like a spirit, like she was, dead. She continued her movement by dropping her head back down towards the floor. As she did so, stunning ashen hair plummeted over her pallid face, shining in the ceaseless light of the moon. Her hair was as white as glistening snow and made her all the more eerie. What clung to her body was a tight fitting, filthy wedding dress,
The air stream was strong, and the wind whistled through open windows; it was the dead of night and the street looked as lifeless and forlorn as ever. The cobbles still remained unscathed, as if nobody had wanted to pace onto that territory. The dense gardens of boarded up houses lay untouched, whilst houses which were occupied had the same warmth glow that homes have, like the homes where families live in and play in their gardens for the duration of summer. Although this convivial street had lit up windows, only one street light remained operational, all the same it still flickered intermittently, sometimes leaving the street in obscurity for hours, and then there will be that unambiguous buzzing hum and then become ignited once more. Below the unpredictable entity, an overrun decomposing bench rested, planted on all its four legs, plants whirled and twirled in the region of the object, in and out of pavements, and clung to fences which sheltered houses from the hours of darkness. Underneath laid trampled flowers. It appeared that they had been compressed by the mystifying figure who sat there. As a rustling sound occurred and then a rock-strewn clank, as though someone had kicked a stone, the figure looked up. She had delicately chiselled features that sat firmly on an ethereal fair face, and held the most mysterious, passionate eyes, grey and musky, with a distinctive sparkle. Despite this, however, they looked as though they had cried many nights. Looking up further en route for the stars, a tear dropped off her curved chin, her air of mystery gained a murky aura almost like a spirit, like she was, dead. She continued her movement by dropping her head back down towards the floor. As she did so, stunning ashen hair plummeted over her pallid face, shining in the ceaseless light of the moon. Her hair was as white as glistening snow and made her all the more eerie. What clung to her body was a tight fitting, filthy wedding dress,