She opens the window.

The night is still violet.

Not sisters or lovers.

We are not holding hands.

The taste, she says. That’s what I remember.

Of the dark, I ask.

Of morning, she says. Of beginning again.

It’s bitter, I say. But not like a lemon.

No. Like an aspirin, she says. When it sticks on your tongue.

She touches my hair.

Tell me, she says.

I say, scissors. Sounds, I tell her. Footsteps at dawn.

I remember, she says. Like blowing out candles.

Or holding a seashell up to your ear.  

Does it ever, she asks.

No it doesn’t. It’s like rust, I tell her.

She sighs.

It’s light soon, she says.

I smile.

Not like lemons, I say.

Not orphans or lovers.

We are not holding hands.

She closes the window.

We are all I remember.

 

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