There is sunshine this morning. It warps the frost on the window, melts frozen feathers into my palm, dampens the folded cuff of my coat. I'm not waiting for anyone.
This morning there is music resonating down the hallway at school. Someone stands in the center of a room to my right, mouth open, dancing with words, smiling only half as wide as me.
There's ink on my wrist, blued from writing late into the night when my bare feet refused to walk in the solitary dark to the cold sink down the hall, wash my hands with frothy soap under endless water.
I wish for a fleeting second I could light a tall candle, sit crisscrossed on my bedroom floor, watch the wax tip into the tilting Earth as I suffocate the gap between night and day.
Instead, I press my head down, will myself to burn the memory of the dancing figure