Late sun smoothes her quilted skin, her cheeks rise under her eyes. She’s silent in the car, squints at streetlights flaring up along the road.
She says nothing when I feed her, but I see how she tracks the glint that bounces off the spoon.
When downtown smog smudges her bedroom windowpane, I begin to draw the drapes. She tugs at my wrist and says, It’s not enough, but let it in.
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