I pull a sleeve down over my wrist to rub a memory—something about a hat she saw—off her hippocampus, and tape up the broken seashell You couldn't resist from California. I plant more capillaries in her cheeks; how Yours blossomed in the cold. I open a jar of Your thoughts—on the moon phases, Your unapproachable father, Your addiction to cheap ramen—and watch them spark like fireflies as they infect her willowing axons. And this heart. I drag a lawn chair to it. Lean forward. I dent it with Your secrets, I recount all the times You said Forever.