when the past lingers swiftly on your skin, like leaves falling above a long forsaken tree, what do you do? the moment it lands on your all-bruised porcelain flesh, and all you can feel is the familiar memory. memories, perhaps — that haunt you even with awake eyes. it never goes somewhere, does it? it always stays, tucked in, buried along your bones. it burns, and it aches. it stings, and it ruins the smiles of what was once an innocent child. that happens, doesn’t it? nights when you stay awake longing for softer arms to hold you. not in a way that suffocates, not in a way that silences the cries and sniffles. but in a way that is gentle, in a way that can tolerate the loudness in every mourn. in a way that is safe.