Colour Contortion

She sat by the window dreaming of coffee as the raven drew near. It
perched itself on a branch and settled its' wings, dark as the thoughts
that unsettled her. The black coffee steamed and she poured the milk,
smooth as the skin of the girl she was thinking off. Porcelain white of
ivory bones, skin of delicate milk coffee and hair of honey brown. And
the sky dripped slowly, filling heavily with tears. The bird was as
sordid and damp as her mind. And the girl in her thoughts was bluer by
the minute.