Tanks tear through
flaming towns- a
mother shielding bullets.
The world erupts and
he is alive in a sea of
broken bodies.
In his tattered tent,
late-night he
is broken too.
He touches me
like I was
shattered glass
as his fingers braid
my loose strands:
assemble, disassemble.
The scent of sawdust
and powder lingers
on his ashy skin.
I inhale and
hold him,
gently.