She runs down the cobblestone street, hand reaching blindly forward, the other clutching the copious tulle of her gown. Blackened tears streak her face, joining freckle-dots as they flow towards the corner of her reddened lips. Daisies and yellow dahlias line the streets, her hand grazing the stone wall and she runs.
That is how you picture her when she ran away from you. Like you want her to be hurt the way it hurt you.
There are church bells in your memory, from some long-ago. You were there once, almost.
(from an experimental exercise with Jason Beckman)