she is crouched in the corner of the couch, arms crossed over the sides and peering at the newspapers she just put up again. they fell down because of the winter humidity. her back is to me. her pink hair is long, and she looks so small in that shirt, and i think this is a sight that should be preserved. a picture would not be good enough. she is adjusting the fourth article. she sighs when it doens't cooperate. she has moved back, and she is looking at the articles closer to the top of the wall. there's one about postal codes, and "for lovers", and the shore of once salt. her neck is angled, and she's humming something. she is perfect.

i sit here and i let my mind find something to write, because she is sleeping beside me and maybe if i stay here a little longer, she might wake up. she should sleep. she has been awake for 36 hours straight. i doubt she will wake up. she must be deep in her rem cycles. she has not stirred, even when i was on the phone and accidentally laughed too loud, even when my music played softly.

i have not looked at her. if i am to look at her i will see her, and while i may feel nothing, or just a mild fondness, i may also feel the want of waiting, or sitting on the other side of the couch and writing, and digging myself deeper into the hole of tiredness because i want her to wake up and i want to be close to her.

i can look at her, undisturbed. she is breathing. she should be in the sun.

gods would kill over her. over her beauty, and her laugh, but most of all, her company. her words and the way she leans into everything and how time passes like sand, quickly and then all too fast, with you anticipating the end and then it's over and you realize your hands are empty.