She was kind. She spoke like she could reach through the cavities of your soul

and separate the stained bones that binded your insides. Encircled, entwined.

How do you put words on the state of things? She greeted you with uncharacteristic softness,

your favorite blanket, egg-white yarn, folded at the corner of the bed. She let in the light,

first days of spring cracking open and spilling through her windows. You could see the veins

in the leaf, splayed out like dying men.

She was soft. Palms that could sweep wind from the sky cupped around your body.

The way she laughed ripped you into a better person. Angled against the light in a way that

made the shadows jump. Hair that is brushed from a sloping forehead falls back down the moment it is

undone. Why wait for eternity when she offered it on a silver platter.

She was patient. Light hands against shuddered breathing.

The way she touched you felt like rapture. Stuttered confessions captured on fingers that spun

the reflection out of you. Seeing yourself in her eyes.

But she sat with you.

Through it all.

And you cried.

And when you awoke she had left.

She took her suitcase, canvas stretched over plastic frame, and left you with the home.

It was like breathing again.