Dipping our bread in oil tins we talked of morning peeling open our rooms to a moment of almonds, olives and wind when we did not yet know what we were. The days in Mallorca were alike: footprints down goat-paths from the beds we had left, at night the stars locked to darkness. At that time we were learning to dance, take our clothes in our fingers and open ourselves to their hands. The veranera was with us. For a month the almond trees bloomed, their droppings the delicate silks we removed when each time a touch took us closer to the window where we whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives.