Occasionally she would take the feeling out from her chest.
Like lilies. Cold and sweet and warm and real -
Subtle in her palm.
She holds them out and they flutter, like doves. Cooing softly. They take flight and she lets them, flying deeper into a soft blue sky, flying where she cannot feel them, into a womb of warmth and darkness and -
Love.
Numbed, and so hard to touch.
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