It was the way you carried yourself, as if universes scratched at your shoulders and the care you kept neatly inside was killing you slowly.
I remember the words you spoke as if they were poking, pressing at your already bruised ribs; as if they climbed up your throat holding ice hooks and torches.
I buried them deep as they'd go in the sweat-drenched sheets, hoping you wouldn’t remember or want to search for them.
But one night I awoke to an unfamiliar breeze, those sheets untangled and draping halfway out the open window.