"I think I might swing all the way up tonight," she remarks to her bruised palms. He overhears and presses her curls into his mouth and begs her not to go. She says its important for her to try and not to keep her still. She likes the wind against her face and and the pump inside her calves.
Maggie slips away to sleep. She finds her solitary swing, takes her seat and lazily rocks back and forth. She meets the breeze...finds the rhythm and kicks back to start. Her feet stretch up and out. Her aching palms grip the cool, silvery chains.
Maggie likes it when the fog rolls in. She can no longer see her toes ahead of her. She doesn't know where the gound and sky meet and her hair has lost it's curl. She mounts higher and higher until she swings the full circle and passes the threshold of her dream.
She awoke by him. He kissed her blue palms and the color melted away. She stayed white from that eve on.