An arm hung across the rubble, draped like a broken swan neck, decorated by intricate patterns of blood and dust.
I couldn't have known who the arm belonged to, but in that moment I was sick to my stomach with devastating surety.
Those were the fingers that had twined through mine in gestures of love and desperation, painted my arms in strokes of comfort, and of loneliness.
The palm that had confidently gripped a weapon, and had carried groceries into the house. Palms that had pressed hopelessly against rain-washed glass and gently against tearstained cheeks. Those palms that willingly cradled my uneasy heart.
And the arm. The arms that stretched into the sparkling star-strewn sky, the grey and pouring rain, the sun-baked air rippling in waves across that embrace. Arms that had wrapped around a struggling body with grim purpose and aching heart, softly beneath a wiggling puppy and its pink kisses, easily against the warmth of my breakable ribs.
I saw the broken swan and I felt something heavy, maybe my heart, slip from limp fingers and break into glittering shards decorated by intricate patterns of blood and dust.