She is not immortal, she is becoming vulnerable as time is drifting. Her feeble hands can't hold much, her moulded skin is currently drab.
Her fidgeting fingers have lost their sensitive touch. Her reluctant smile is not mirthful enough to light the room now. Her sleek body and tall frame are not the same. She has grown old, a bit of amnesia has taken over her mind.
Somehow, her mind never ceases to surprise me as she seems to go down her deposed memory lane.
Her willy and exquisite nature is not long lost as I look at her through the window, my elbow on the sill, admiring the being a few stretches away from me. She has not acknowledged my presence as I enter through the door of the small but embellished coffee house which just pacifies her taste. The bells on the door chime a little as I nervously stumble inside, attracting a bit of audience which I don't mind. Until my eyes meet her...
Her eyes are hollow with blemishes around. But the worst part of it is , I cannot efface it.