My hands were shaking this morning. It is rather cold but it must have been my lack of eating. I don't remember when I stopped, but I like it because I feel different. My heavy heart can rest on the lightness of my stomach. I want to stay light. I want to be like you were when I used to lift you into the air. Are you still light enough for Byron?
Sometimes I find myself watching the woods. The cold glass that blistered my cheek reminds me of when you struck me. Sometimes I can imagine I am resting on that thin, unyielding palm. Is it better to face your resentment or to ignore it?
I can hear the wolves, unless it is my own murmuring. My breath leaves hardly a pale trace on the glass before fading. Do you really want me, such a small mark, to disappear into oblivion?
I'm there now.