Through the Rustle of Leaves

DiAmaya Dawn
Jul 30, 2018 · 2 min read

There’s a whisper coming from the fallen leaves and in my mind, the image of a woman scatters into millions of red and brown rusty pieces. They follow the wind, they form smooth, colourful typhoons, they’re blowing dreams away.

The summer moans through the rustle of forgotten days; days when the woman in my mind needed no reminder of our existence’s meaning, when the leaves around her were still green and proudly hanging from branches alongside beautiful birds and wise night owls.

But brown is a colour she has kept in her heart way longer, and the moans of the dying summer sound like a song drown from the depths of her most precious secrets. The summer tries to stay alive, but along with its hot breaths, it blows cold, painful breezes, trying to resist fate.

The woman now reformed, all pieces are back in place and she’s standing alone — her lips curve, forming a smile before letting out a laugh that will haunt my happiest days.

She echoes as if to show me the world is empty; as if she needs me to know the void left by the thousands of foolish dreams dreamt when one is careless can never be filled — not even by late night wishes on stars, not even by the most honest of prayers after night-long nightmares.

And even so, the spark in her eyes cannot be mistaken, this light can only be of hope.

And here I am, I keep standing in the middle of the world, the colours are dancing around me in a symphony of emotions and dreams, marvelling at the woman in my mind.

The woman that now glows with hope and her laughter will no longer haunt me but will sprinkle my heart with melodies of desire.

And I smile too when I recognise this light.

As the colours around me transform into stardust that fills my gleaming skies, I watch the woman fading into white, gentle clouds that rest quietly on the air before gentle, light raindrops soak my bare skin. And I know from the peace I feel in my heart, that woman has always been me.


Whispers Captured in Dawns and Vice Versa

DiAmaya Dawn

Written by

Reader, writer, editor, poet, dancer, music addict. Japanophile, pluviophile and attracted by darkness. Part normal, part Greek.


Whispers Captured in Dawns and Vice Versa

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