distant laughter spills through open windows,
staining my bedroom floor some shade of before.

evening: I cut my hand on something I once said
while scrubbing memories out of the new rug.

I ran my hand under the tap; lifeblood down the drain.
the water, frigid, bestows anesthetic amnesia.

later: the open windows let in a draft, confessions.
the cherry wood floors splinter under the weight.

I tiptoe over rolling wood; stone skipping on water.
closing the windows is like blowing out birthday candles.

midnight: moonlight bleeds through gaps in the window blinds,
tattooing the wall above my bed with bright rectangles.

I hold my throbbing hand up to the light; silent salvation.
silver forgiveness drips down the length of my arm.

morning: I awake with a fresh scab, an answered wish.
under the watery sunrise, my hand is newborn.

I ought to watch the world from behind framed glass,
but, with a breath, I open the windows again.