Like July in winter, a muse as perfect as she is a ghost. She’s intimate with flight, because she’s a bird of the sea. She’s perfect for me, but her imperfectness can never be. I’m only with her, in her royal court at Kush, past the weight of the day, in the dreams of the could have been. She flies with her broken wings and catches my fall, but will never know the depth of it all. She’s a mirage in my mind, of qualities transferred by the shores of my dreams. How I’ve fallen.