My palms are upturned and empty. There should be something soft in them. I know this from my heartbeat. Empty flesh. Empty creases. Dry rivers. There's never morning in these hands. Only nights... over and over again.... I hurt and I wonder why it's never now. Never now. Always almost. And why I love so hard with soft milk in my tears. I hurt with a shame. A desire to hide these splinters and pluck them free. Foreign. I don't recall their shape, recall anything, except that foggy glow of hope that mumbles in the hallway. She's not my friend. Any longer. Not my instant retreat. Pain replays in dark hair. Reminded. Unobtainable.