The ones that matter are always fashionably late. It takes that little bit longer to accentuate perfection, to line beautiful eyes, to crimp perfect, cascading locks of hair. Oh, those that mattered were always late. And i'm no different. Perhaps summer would have been a brighter time; the wildflowers would fall at my feet, the vines and branches from the trees, would bend and sway, a carpet for me to tread along. But no, instead I am met by a winter wonderland, the icicles drape the trees like chandeliers. The ivory blanket soft, crunching beneath my pale hooves. The wind felt like wanton fingers, pulling at my ivory and amber tresses, begging for my attention, trying to pull me close. 

Ah, I don't think so. Rylie is here, like a goddess, with accentuated strides, hips that curve and had been moulded by fine hands. I am a sculpture, that sits behind protective glass. Every part of me is moulded as perfect is meant. My crown carries high, soft caramel eyes watchful behind the drapery of amber, that falls just so, over my forehead. I scan the ivory meadow, trying to pick out those that could entertain, those that could follow me like the spring flowers follow the sun's glorious rays. 

Perhaps one day. perhaps one day I would have minions, eyes following my every move, greedy hand pandering to my every whim. But those dreams are like liquid gold, slipping through my fingers as I sashay through the thick dunes of snow. To the heart, the centre stage. An actress needs her podium, her well-lit stage, after all...

.

R Y L I E

i'm already under your skin