Sun walk

with a pen she has used since she found the right words and sitting beneath her own falling leaves, comfortable besides the air, she wrote,
David
I don't see colors anymore. It's plain to me that my eyes are defused with silver. Everything is soft. But lord, I am forced to wear my hideous lenses in class, since the professors are all irritated with my constant squinting. I can't help but squint; it keeps me concentrating on the knowledge I can't see worth digesting. My last pair of lenses I forgot hidden in a book, and the librarian squashed them with an armful of encyclopedias. She scolded me; I told her encyclopedias have always had it out for me.
I see in silver, but I dream in blue, and sometimes in orange. So you see, much of the color has gone out of my life. Even before such a drastic change in my vision, I always saw you in shades of silver.
she stopped. The wind almost blew the page from beneath her fingers, but she pulled it away and in doing so, crinkled the edges with her grasp. she sighed; he always hated wrinkled papers.
The wind thrust away a cascade of crinkled paper leaves. White and silver, they clung to her hair.