Foggy, misty nights - let my past hang heavy. It was like this, years ago, and in the morning I would hold my feet up to the window, let the light shift through the blinds, landing diagonally across my legs. (Clear cuts of shadow.) Two months later, they sliced through me and placed something once dead inside a small portion of my knee, and I began the slow process of building myself new.
They happen so quickly. I meet someone new and say, astonished, "It's been four years." Things spread out and disperse. That small once-dead thing has become part of my fabric, so that now I might not even mention it. (Not out loud.) It hangs, heavy - not in the back of my mind, no, not where they placed it, no - but transcendent, throughout. My body has metabolized it and every motion I make says, "I was once dead, and small."