Evaporating

Outside, there came a light.
It was different light upon different light, that procured me to write of it, curiously expressing sunken cheeks like those on the desperately hollow. Those two-toned hands, hopelessly reaching for just one pen on the desk; the one that journeyed its way into some style, some openness that would soon be closed, spilling an evaporation. What was this dream, but to be empty, and where, but to be forgotten? Straws poked up from the ground, waving in the wind, and let her be known--she was talking through the children laughing, whilst my red nails played a painted song.
Its beams called for choosing, and let me be chosen for the time.