She loves this battle, because this battle is all she knows. She is chaos, she is silence, she is nothing. She is not from here. And she never will be.
You have never known her.
She is the spices in the air, and the rustle of Autumn flying through the dry summer breeze, always away, always another time, always searching.
She is the page you tear out and fold into your wallet. The feeling of leaves, and trees and yesterday you never want to forget, but always do.
She is that familiar stranger, that feeling of distance, that you can’t quite place.
She is returning. Always returning. Because she is forever lost.