As her hands let go

If I had been a painter,
I would have drawn her clear
Up on a narrow cliff
with just enough space for,
As she stood with her back stiff

I would have painted her with a long dress
The colour of midnight
Flying despite the rain
because of the harsh, ruthless wind
Her hair, not too long
Yet undone
Being swayed by the rough gusts

Her hand outstretched
Her eyes almost blank
Mostly undone

The rain would be falling
Long and hard
And her hand tightening
As something fell from it
Something she once held
Tightening not to hold it back
But to let it go faster
Like sand that's contained in hands

She'd tried
God knew she had
Desperately, relentlessly tried to actually hold on to it
To protect it
Had
Not anymore
She had nothing more to give
It had all eroded like the rocks
From the cliff she stood on

Now she wanted no more of it
Not when it left her so empty
That even tears didn't fall
As she let it go

The sadness she felt
Oh, that she did
Was completely passive
Like the sadness from the person who once was
Was it forced?
Probably not
But it was as much for what could have been
As it was for what had been

But it was time to let go
And let go she did
By holding it tighter
Knowing it'll find it's way out faster

The rain thrashed on her
The drops were cold
So was the gale that thrashed at her face
If it hurt her, it didn't show
Maybe because she had nothing left to give
Nothing left to feel even for her own pains

Nothing but the pull of gravity
So strong, she didn't try to fight it
Just knew it was heavy
Everything that was left with was too heavy
Everything except that which was already leaving

I would have painted her so
Standing there alone
More alone than lonely
Looking like the last person alive
Who vaguely remembered days better
But was battered by the storm after
Battered by the fight she'd put up
And eventually lost
By winning
Or won, by losing
She couldn't tell which now
It didn't matter
She'd once hoped
Foolishly believed even,
that it might have.

I would have painted her there
And had people wonder
How did she end up there
Does she have a place to go after?
How will she get away from there!

But I ain't no painter
I've only got words
So I write her as I see her
In my head
And hope one day
Someday
She finds her way out
and then, I'll be back
Writing about that too.

For now,
she stands
Eyes looking at something far away
Hands almost empty
The sand or star dust
Whatever that was
Worthless or invaluable
Almost all gone now
And she was left there
Standing
With just the ruthless cold rain
Still slashing down on her

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