There is only pain. He held her hands,
thin-*****, trembling, bird-brittle,
like the last leaves,
too tired to fall.

The prosaic life,
a numbing inventory of dull tasks—
each line scarring deeper,
the paper tearing.

They said she was dead,
perhaps in jest,
but her history whispered otherwise:
the needle’s hymn,
the razor’s sharp alphabet,
a body taught the language of harm.

He dreamed once of poems—
bright-winged things—
but they fell, crushed,
their syllables too thin
to shoulder the weight of her silence.

To be kind, to be gentle,
is to wound oneself slowly,
a quiet hemorrhage.
Even when it hurts, more,
especially then.