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.