She sits on a dust- devoured windowsill shadow of what was yesterday’s non-fiction coaxes the blear souvenir. Wine residue from that naked summer. idle. Her damned by garbed sun buried behind stained golden curtains. It’s hidden so I don’t have to recall one evening when we drunkenly danced Ray LaMontange’s Hold You In My Arms. How everything blurred as sang could hold you forever like wasn’t out tune. sure were ourselves with Pacific Ocean our witness.