I'm trying to disappear
into the window.
Beside me, the nice lady
with hair like frost on lilacs
touches my arm,
like a mother might.
She doesn't ask why —
doesn't need to.
You don’t cry that way
unless you’ve left someone
who held your soul in his hands.
She just places her hand on my arm
with the calm of someone
who's seen love leave,
and still return.
We sit that way
watching clouds
and memories,
and breathing feels
just a little less
like breaking.
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