Sleepwaves

I met someone whom I thought was a magnificent angel, and then in a single sweep her feathered wings wounded me.

This is part 2 of a series. One night as she lay sleeping I could hear her breathing on the phone. It was a rare opportunity. I quickly set up the easel, grabbed a set of colored charcoal sticks, and sort of gestured her breathing patterns from soft and slow to quick and harsh. I imagined that the colors represented what she might have been dreaming.

Left preserved only as a physical memory fragment, nothing more.