So much more than this, the sliver of her smile, the crack of the bat, the lip snagged on the thorn. The dub of paint beaded along the frame, the gathered lint in the crook of his elbow, her breath when she pushes him out, the stain of something broken, the pain of the needle pricking his eye. The light breaking gathered curtains, the smell of pork burned in the summer, his laughter as they cuff him away. The windshield breaking in the night, his cigarette doused in the rain, the feel of the brick against her cheek. So much more than this, all of it lost, never too sure, nothing ever quite complete, accept the sweat on his brow and my hand and the shudder of his last breath.