I made you a latte.
Ah! The invitation to dream longer, when dreams so urgently beckon -- return, return! And to know there is coffee waiting.
The very magic of a latte whose existence was wrought in unseen actions (by loving hands, not your own, who didn't need to check you would want this, of course not) whilst you slept, to sleep a little longer, and then to wake to its splendor, alone in your apartment, which has become, simply, a housing place for your books.
And that is all good and lovely and well. Truly. But...
Its goodness hinges on its transience. Clings to it. And you know this. As all good things do. It is utterly untenable. So easily sipped too quickly, or not fast enough, growing warm on the nightstand as you yawn, brush disheveled fringe from your eyes, and write.
You know this moment, and you know this deep-seated but ever-fleeting feeling. Because it's you. It is you, girl in frame.
Enlightened to your own ephemerality. Self-possessed by your own wild heart which churns, and moves, and chases one thing, and then another, just when you thought it was at rest.
There are the things that hem your rampant soul in -- the handsome one you love, the books, and the weighty cameras, the letters, your yearning uterus, the cups of coffee, and the need to write, write, write. The material stuff that reminds you -- you are of this world, and in it, you exist, you are.
Ah, but there are wonderful, beautiful, ineffable cracks in the glass, and those quiet things are yours and yours alone, and every girl in every frame has her own. These cracks are not breaks, but are grooves, like the ones that crisscross your palms in glorious unsymmetry.
Oh, that history has painted you a portrait -- and bosomed or bird-boned or berated or brave -- has painted you a permanent thing. Lovely. Still. Bird on a telephone wire, one outstretched limb, a chair.
But you, girl in frame, you are less a portrait and more a film, and that is your secret, is your incandescence.