all these with no place to go. an old chemistry set, the wick of a candle that’s been burned off prematurely, a quilt that’s been stretched open like a chain link fence. they leave grooves on the skin when pressed, the stray eye lash that falls in your coffee. a rock that tumbles out of your shoe to alleviate the pain of having crossed over, clean and unblemished. your son wobbles his head as you hold him tightly above you, up and over, erupting with a laughter he has yet to understand. rubbing her eyes in the dark, your daughter asks you to sing a song that you can’t possibly remember until you begin to whisper the words in the dark. the sum of a foreign set of limbs that were once your own curling up for warmth.