Sunlight seeping through the blinds that fall victim to an eternal ray of heat, yet incapable of producing anything of their own. Silk pillows being taken under the wing in hopes of just— one, more, lover. Summer soaked paper made in larger forms of love, that I can only seem to be so generous with. Ill intended shreds beneath my bedside table, and yet you somehow blend in with the casted shadows of it just fine. Untouched keys making noise for the entire world that cannot yet bear to listen. Carefully sculpted pieces loved on a secondary graze; but is anything ever loved primarily? Overwhelming memories narrowed down to no more than three inches wide, and I swear I can almost hear you calling my name as I watch them move— despite their sterility.