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.