The second time she wakes up,

her left arm is still wrapped in white gauze

she’s still in a white gown

her hair is still a mess of limp white locks,

laying against rumpled white sheets.

There’s

no blood, no red dot,

no pain, nor a dull throb.

And when she curls her fingers

to examine the nails—

carefully manicured and a soft, healthy pink shade

without a scrape of dirt crammed underneath

without flecks of white dot

—her chest constricted

the ghost of the man’s touch

still grip her vice-like.

His cologne kisses her lips good morning.

She shivers in spite of the cool heat.