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Weekly Contest #331
Snow falls on the highway as the sun dips behind the sharp mountains piercing the horizon. The sight is beautiful, and so I think of you. The snowflakes dance to the ground and it looks like the glitter that would shake from your skin when you glided across a stage. My mother thought it made you look cheap, whorish, like a 19-year-old in a downstairs club, she said. But my mother never had an eye for art. The way you dressed made you inhuman. You looked gilded, poured from molten silver like the bangles on your wrists and the ornaments in yo...
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