She left her prince by the edge of the sea, at the bottom of the stairs, where she climbed to the top of the tower. Her feet curled off each stair, bare with sand buried in the mounds of her toes and cracks in her heels. Gastrocnemius muscles in her calves bulged and softened with every step. Lean lines shot straight up her legs. The way up was dark and coated with pitch - a natural road. And she climbed slowly, carefully, deferentially. She bit her lips until they bloomed red and licked the salty traces that never belong on a rose. The messy waves of her hair were gathered into a braid, trailing from the crown of her head to the tattoo on the small of her back. It was a dragon, twisted in slumber but with fire still burning at the tip of its tail. Her ponytail swung from side to side over the flame. She was near the top. She threw off her top. Sticky walls caught it and framed it in an artless gallery. The door swung out at her touch and she collapsed on the bed. The window was open and a faint voice was whispering down down down. But here she stayed, staring at a cloudless sky, waiting for one or some to wander up, up, up.
(photo via AnOtherMag.com)
