You just caught a glimpse of her again, like the first bite of an image coming through in the darkroom's hush of held breath, like a lone fragment discovered by accident in reams of fingertip cutting office papers you flicked through before they hit the shredder. She managed to elude you somehow, and now you are tearing your fingers again in that heap of old paper just like a moment ago.
You can picture her in your impatient mind, but she's buried in gritty sand and rubble, waiting to be excavated from a cave of unconsciousness. And like treasure from an ancient hoard, it could take weeks, or months to make the dust fly from her face without ruining her profile.
She's back in the cobwebbed corner, like some thread of a distant tune entwined in the chromatic doodling of a muted trumpet. Out in the daylight, free from the last dregs of smoky air in the clarity of a crisp new day, the easy swing will straighten up and dive back to linger until another darkness falls.
She's waiting for another connection before the river mud yields. She's waiting for the generosity of a vivid eye.
This post was inspired by today's prompt and photo at weekendwordsmith.blogspot.com