and i ran my fingers over wood splinters sharp and remembered. not many, precious. here underneath the tongue, by the window where the blinds are thickened by seasons. i had the cord around my neck and my feet dangling from the sill. it was wonderful to see a sky free of everything. the promise of concrete cracked aside by persistent roots. to be the seam of the world, where her lips remember my name and my children slip in and out of the sun.