morning comes. she slinks over to your side of the bed and taps your shoulder. you slur what do you want. she only tugs your arm harder and points toward the bathroom, where the light leaks through the door. maybe she is sick. nauseous. maybe it is stormy and she wants to sleep on the floor of your closet. morning leads you to the sink. her eyes are wet. you are awake. what is wrong. morning points to her ankle. it is bleeding. it won’t stop. she has run out of bandages. you grab a wash cloth and wrap it around her foot. am I damaged? you ask her to define the term. she points to the window, to the sky, to the stars. all the dead light. maybe it is good to be broken. you tell morning to go back to bed, to sleep. you promise to make pancakes for breakfast.