A vast and beautiful sadness must have unfolded overnight, because when he awoke in his jumbled sheets, there it was, imbuing everything, and he found himself wondering of her return. Wondering would she be the same?
Would she appear to be younger or (somehow) older? Would the tangerine fringe she favoured of late have faded, becoming less lustrous; no longer a shade above the bows of her brow?
He pictured her as she had been the night she’d left – in her elegant charity; the purple turtleneck hugging her tin ribs; the polyester highlighting and hardening her pips, the satin rubbed rabbit knuckle of her palmed hip; her bare feet shuffling the carpet…
Would these vintaged threads be replaced now with new raiment? Would white musk sillage still kite and spill from her? Or, would she now fly some strange and unknown fragrance? Would she appear made-up, lacking, indifferent, crass?
Would her speech remain
this loose and languid haiku
a lending of ear
…requiring a leaning and bending into (over the sound of Pale Blue Eyes)? Would she retain the charming and childlike habit of truncating and clipping some un/certain phrase – because it seemed to him that when she spoke, the world beyond her words softened, it sweetened a little. They hummed and honeyed in his head, his heart, and life beyond his frame took on a quietude – not unlike a polaroid beneath tissue.