It was the way she slept.
The way her tranquility shadowed the room like a wandering fragrance, swamping everything in the most unattainable of divine solitudes. The gentle form of her nape rested against the feathery pillow, almost as if wary of bruising it. The echoing rhythms of her breathing, like a flock of memories breaking free. The amniotic grace with which she nestled into her blanketed shape. The innocent arrogance of her skin as an unwelcome sunrise sneaked in through the window. The simplicity of every moment that passed her by, like the pulsating ignorance of a road that goes nowhere.
The manner she always awoke, the fluid measure of her guileless reluctance, the rambling beauty of her heavy eyelids as they slowly unfurled, luring and dissolving the day's harsh reality into tender dreams of her own.