Portions of When

Her smile. Vinegar and salt. There's little to know. And too much to learn. She writes to her ghosts in permanent ink. Scratching out the glass. Until everything is dark and clear. Like it used to be. Choices she assumes are wild fires at best. Culling the demons from the pleasure. she blames only touch.

she could cry, but she doesn't. brave as the sun in an eclipse. frantic petitions of skin cause her to stumble. she feels through the darkness. imagining what was once there. tracing the windows with dying pens.

she peels the fruit. hungry for the flesh within. she tells him there is a quantifiable begining and end. but she doesn't have any proof.

she spends her days sorting blades of grass. knowing there is no end. quietly working her questions into the conversation. terrified of the answers.