She told me
everything powerful
always remains hidden.

I remained silent when
she reached across the
candle lit counter and exposed
her arm past the wrist as
she topped off her glass.

I showed no emotion as
she unintentionally exposed
the flesh beneath
the sleeve of her knitted
second hand sweater.

She told me how the
pills and the ***** had
replaced the priest and
the sacrificial wine.

I kept my eyes on her
drink as the ***** quivered
from the surface tension
along the rim of the smokey
highball glass.

She told me she was too fast
for love but too afraid to be alone.

I took my time with my own bitter
drink as she continued on.

She said she wanted more
sedation and less acceleration.

She wanted ice cubes for her drinks
that didn't melt so fast.

She wanted Winehouse back
and for the butterflies to come to
her.

She wanted to light up the
darkness like Goya did.

But most of all she wanted
everything she wrote down
to leave her forever.

All I wanted was to help get
her through the night.

I started by tucking my fighting
knife away and by really listening
while ignoring the marks on
her arm.

Those hurtful jagged scars
of a Cutter.