She steps across the broken glass and bleeds onto the floor. Red rivers run into puddles; swell into lakes that bubble and shimmer in the summer sun. Her feet stick to the hardwood, parting with footprints that lead her in circles around the room.

He was nothing more than a quiet, restless breath against the neck of unassailable torture.

They were lying in bed once, naked under thin white sheets, listening to rain as it splashed against the leaves of a giant tree outside the window. Her legs were parted, waiting, waiting for the death of another day. He whispered that he loved her.

And she could still smell the rain.

She spreads herself out on ground and stares at the ceiling. Lights spin and settle in the back of her mind.

He was nothing more than a moment.

A moment of perpetuity.