Her Name is Jane

by Aanya F Niaz

There had always been a gentle sting in her eyes that could awaken even the dullest of corpses in any grave. She could even make time and tide wait. Gold rays of a pocket full of shine gravitated towards her and if you passed her, even a whiff of her coconut scented hair could dodge you of memories of love before. There was a significance to her; an almost necessary purpose that beckoned quietening sunsets to raise their fists in the air and call on the sun to come out again. She was fortitude, a conquest of becoming desires with a twist of vanilla.

Best of all, she was none of this to herself but to the world.