immortal bird

George stares at the window above him.

The moon is awfully bright tonight, round and full and so close it feels like George could reach out and touch it. He almost does, lifting his arm and stretching his fingertips to splay out on the glass. He imagines holding it in his hand, so cold it'll burn, turning his blood to little more than ice crystals lodged within his veins.

(title from Ode to a Nightingale by Keats.