The ghosts of him haunt every corner -
her wistful longing hunger
knawing through,
attempting to ignore this still -
they drift past, they pass through
she feels the icy chill; she trudges
on as the frost sets in on branches while
higher still, the infernal sun drenches
the world with vibrant ultraviolet oncogenic colours,
its tearing heat
welling up
torrid and torrential raining sun
sweltering down,
it does not warm
her beading brow,
or light her shaded eyes. Still
she cracks her pained face into a painted smile,
a paragon of politesse,
she remarks on the weather, and continues
her marathon through ice and fire,
as the ghosts of him around her loiter.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
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