Your arms ripping at the seams, as your pain pours into ordered lines. Red warning tape. I say nothing as each night you add another tally to your rising score.
I don't want to make you uncomfortable.
Silent acknowledgement hides in the gaps between glances as you ask me if the short sleeves are okay. I tell you no one will notice, that no one will care, as my heart rises to the back of my throat and your arms blur into a wet red.
We tread together but I can't hold your hand. Should I say something? Should I ask up front? Should I look at your eyes and confront it? Or is that a betrayal of the comfort in my silence. The silence of support or a bystander's shame? Is it all the same?
Reaching out, a lifeline, a baseline of decency. You underscore every emotion in vermillion, powered by something only you can deal with. When you lean on me to root you in place I can't move. I am helpless against you.
I hold tissues to your fissures and figure out the best of the worst, and test the boundaries of where it hurts.
this isn't the best literary wise but its very personal - watching someone you love suffer but not being able to do anything about it