She’s sleeping across from me, her consciousness vacant in the deep slumber of winter suspension. I can feel the pulsating music of her breath, fleeting softly in its trembling exhale and the delicate flutter of her inhale. I can see the small flicker of movement beneath the thin pale of her eyelids, almost lost in her catatonic beauty. Her chest rises and quivers with its innocent vulnerability, almost audible in the emptinessÂ of the room. I’m breathing in the naked intimacy existing between her and I as I bathe in her captivating presence. I can feel her phantom dancing around me, her hands twirling, twisting in grace and precision, brushing my skin, moving in such balanced, poetic, esoteric beauty. Her apparition locks eyes with me and for a heartbeat I can see the transcendent complexity existing in her deeply secret quintessence. Â I want to touch her, explore the metaphysical landscapes of her subconscious, translate the touch of her skin into the brilliant universes she fabricates in her sleeping artistry. But alas, I’m constrained to the suffocating reality of her absence.