they had asked me what, if anything, i could be sure of. they with their otherness, their sterile glass faces, and cold coffee ring eyes. in my greenness i responded in a thin voice. i wanted to be allowed to hold on to myself, to her. give my bones time to separate from the emptiness. sure of nothing save that i had lost everything my hands knew how to heal. everything for which my mind had known to reach. i am only sure there is an infinite amount of pain, a darkness which extends into a twilight of ten thousand small, developing hearts. i am only sure we are strung together by fate and that it will have to be love. love which tears us open to make room — in this vacant, impeccable blindness — for itself.