you have her
youth in your
clammy, divisive palms.
you have her
childlike innocence
and her bedtime stories
and her goodnight kisses.

isnt it only fair
that you should also
hold, so dearly, every
scar you placed on her
silken skin and
arythmic heart?

right now
she is dancing
fireside, so freely,
tasting the last embers of
stale whiskey
and always, always the absence you.

in the morning her veins
will break free and bleed
you away.

she holds nothing but
the shattered remains