My love turned into a fly one day. It is quite simple, anyone could do it. You could grow wings, if you wanted to. Spread them like a current-less, fluttering falcon over an invisible tide - and you wouldn't feel like an angel because angel wings do not hum, and you would not dance between the clouds because the sky is much too frightening to you, too cold, one might imagine, to be trapped in for a long time, without thermal drafts or the beckoning of earthly cause. What would you do if you had twenty four hours to save the woman you loved, to turn her back?

She fluttered up the stairs, humming on every step.

"Love," she whispered, and the word was the sound of an angel wing turning - the sound of nothing, nothing at all, "I am leaving."

And she would leave like the gracious gestures of a tried and tired hostess, leave like the hollow sounds shattering down a tunnel, buried in the rock, condensing and wet. The window sill lay beneath my hand - a fly, buzzing now and then, twitching, made merit of its own time. The sound still lay beneath my hand.

I did not repeat the words. Did not feel them as I used to. Placed too much value on angelic words before, and had none left for a flies. She bit the inside of her lip and I could feel its softness, once; memory's do not fade like they used to. Thoughts, in full color, grow brighter and sharper each minute, pushing around the boundaries of her image, crowding it out. A buzzing noise from beyond the window... A machination of some kind, manufactured, thrumming. I watched it course through her ears and fall to her feet in an anticipating tremor, a fly buzzing its last, flying its last, a conclusion, an finality, and an end.

A car was stopped outside, humming in anticipation for its favorite insect.

"I could never quite grasp them," I pondered, and it was with a smile that rang aloud. "Flies fly away. Perhaps their name depicts their meaning?"

Frustration fluttered within her chest, and I watched the colors around her become red, covering her face. "Perhaps it does."

Every meaning had grown telestic as her footfalls hammered out the door, baggage in hand, and I watched as she descended the stairs and exited the building - in no particular order, insects need no explanation - kissing a gentleman with a clean shaven face, and my lovely little fly, the lonely one on the window sill, buzzed its last, its twenty four hours at an end.

"All things must end, my little fly," he managed to grasp it at last, cradling the black speck gently in his palm. His darling fly climbed into the dark automobile on the curb, the sharply dressed gentlemen shining victoriously, the little creature stumbling around his palm. The world was turning from beyond the window, turning like the hands of a clock.

The vehicle sped away as he opened the window, watching the insect hover over the vehicle's image, buzzing in harmony. "... So fly, fly away."