IrisThe room. The poems. Us, mostly.

IrisYou, sometimes. You're the part that keeps coming back wrong.

MayaNot wrong. Different.

IrisDifferent every time. And every time we have to love a slightly different person.

Iris touches her own throat, the way she does. Then she touches yours.

IrisI've done it a lot. It doesn't get easier.

Her thumb rests where your pulse is. She counts it out loud, quietly, to four.