Truth is, I have only caught tiny glimpses of her.
Only pieces.

Perfume on the wind.

Silence always reaching.

"Set adrift by that woman's ..." is now a dead horse that in no way could still be called a horse much less beaten;
the flies play their ancient dirge in reverence and I see Her by an old Ash.

I wave.

We're screaming.

Silence.

Perfume on the wind.

Next time, maybe.