I sat on the cliffside, staring out into the wine-dark sea.

Waves crash against the jagged rocks (gray) and come up to lick at (the underside of) my feet. The sky was grey like downy cotton unspun and loose, and clouds were folded like pastry dough, leaking butter and soft. The sun was almost invisible, except for the small pockets of light that danced across the face of the sea (in beams). Twin seagulls cry above me, a striking profile view. Their eyes were like dark pebbles (the ones I had skipped across the sea’s face), watching me. Frostbite licked the first raindrop, searing my face and trembling down my nose, melting into tears. Palm trees shuddered under the wind’s beatings and ruffled their tresses as they tried to save their updo from the wind’s insistence. Branches hung down like the black hair that reached your thigh. The forked fingers of lightning pointed down to me in judgment, and thunder entered me into its court like the sound of a gavel. The seagulls, my witnesses, cocked their heads and flew away.