A kitchen blade is all I have,
held between forefinger and thumb
resting against your skin, shifting like a pulse
as you swallow and breathe.
You close your eyes. Twine threaded
around your wrists, embracing your cold
hands beneath you, resting against my thigh—
I keep you on my lap;
fingers tangled in your locks
the color of nightmares.
A sigh, the sound of your soul
escaping. I cradle your form
cheek against my neck. I keep your tremors
tight against my chest, letting their heat stain cranberry
upon my body; its smell sweet.
I will hold you
until the sun dies.