It sits perched on a windowsill, flapping its wings, remembering flight in a previous life; winds, that rushing sound filling the air, thrilling the heart. The flapping is stunted, nervous, frantic. Each missed moment a reminder of past emotions, passions fizzled out, dried up; parched aching beating inside a hallow ribcage. There was beauty once, everything else unworthy. The memory is clear, yet distant, like stale knowledge from forgotten books; an attic full of empty reminders, yellowed souvenirs from trips beyond recollection, etched with hidden scars. It sits with dried tears, waiting.