A man who takes pride in his modesty
took whiskey with his coffee.

To my dearest sir;

Your beaten, dry hands are no silky cloak
and yet they clung to my quivering shoulders,
bruised and breaking bones;

A silver, rusted ring,
which smelled of bygone perfumes,
hung onto your callous finger
and cleaved my spine to shards.

Your words painted with gold,
stung like lead to my skin,
and by the end of it, it was I who sang to you
a grateful lullaby.