Picturesque

The sun’s rays illuminate her face,

Brightening the darkness under her eyes and heating her tepid core.

A light breeze lovingly pushes the hair from her face,

And though the cliff is quite high, she finds herself uninterested.

She arrived with a purpose, but something about the scene distracts her from the task at hand.

Perhaps, she considers, the gravity of the deed frightens her into a state of trepidation;

No, she has replayed the situation numerous times in her head,

And never has she felt remorse, fear, or any desire to undo the action.

Perhaps her subconscious is nitpicking the note in her pocket;

No, she knows that the details are inconsequential at best.

What happens in this world after she departs it is of little concern to her.

What truly is the root of her disinterest, she knows, is the landscape.

The horizon of her dreams is beautifully picturesque,

With a setting sun and a field of grass and flowers,

But the realistic one is just… barren.

There is no life, no beauty, no warmth, just nothingness.

It is not veiled, proudly boasting its emptiness instead.

She clutches the ground with her feet, allowing the sand to flow through her toes.

She smiles.

The action isn’t worth the sand.