The Sound of Skin

She sighed to the sound of Jazz; its playful sound made yesterday seem less depressed. She jumped at any opportunity to feed her soul escaping the feeling of becoming a crow trapped in a nest, singing the old song of heartbreak. She was addicted to the honesty; Jazz never tried to be something it didn’t want to be. It simply was what it was, with no apologies. Her freshly pale, pink toes allowed slight whispers of noise as they moved to accompany the frenetic beat. Hair swung over her hips like a kiss from gilded wings. She sipped her coffee and smiled through scalded lips. Her fingers shook through the ache of her pen, and the album in the corner had many times run dead. Lying back on the cold floor, she thought to herself “just a few songs more”, and restarted the record watching it spin as her world recollected. And at 3:00 AM she finally drifted past the moon as her eyes fluttered like feathers into sleep. And the stars watched her lips murmur, as she dreamed in ways we never dared, until the warmth of sunlight returned her to the land of the living. She loved the dawn; it always came around no matter how hard the night fought back.

Photographer: Heather Lettieri
Model: Weslee Kate Heileman