She is still sleeping. My eyes dart about the room, bird trapped within its cage. Her arms, birthed from beneath the pillows. She is semi dressed still from the night before.
Rumpled blouse, her necklace by lamplight. An ornate sensibility which should be more melancholy. Stained glass without its church.
Why would you try to hold onto any of this? Because you can't, the desire for the unobtainable perfected within the space of twelve choruses.