Working
Fingers bleeding
paper cuts, and open wounds oozing dark red
Your face pale as white, haggared bones and exhaustion filling you
Your lips, cracked and ripped as you sit there on your chair, hunched back, working.
Working from the moment the sun kisses the moon, til the moment they part
Holding your hands, I wipe off the blood revealing your flesh colored fingertips
I wipe your face, taking off the grime and the soot,
exposing your rosy red cheeks.
You stop me while saying,
"Stop, we're not done yet."
Looking at me with your hazelnut brown eyes,
Shimmering under the light that's illuminated your workplace of years.
You wipe your face, take off the bandages covering your tender fingertips and hunch back over.

Staring, all I could mutter was,
"Beautiful."