hand reaching over the phantom scars on her leg, eyes profoundly broken as flickering christmas lights, a child weeping inside the grown woman. she smiles, she sighs. there is grey where there used to be sunshine, there are desolate trees, where the birds used to sing, and crane their necks like curious strangers, at women who sit on lone benches cradling palms, stirring up memories of touch so gentle it hurt. until people float in and out like a lifebuoy at sea, until a wolfish man in scruffs whistles and waves slowly, as though time itself has broken. she sinks deeper into herself, into the womb of mothers; into all the love and all the heartache.