The first sleep on a hospital bed is always so cold underneath my fractured body.
It makes me wonder what story the warmth that once occupied it before is telling,
Or whether or not he is the story being told.
I guess I consider myself lucky to tell my own.

Survival is a funny thing
You either want it or it wants you and luckily when you work together, sometimes you pull through.
Maybe the light can only enter the soul through an open wound.

You told me once,
“Your eyes no longer shine of summer like they used to.”
“Your hands are frozen.”
“Your heart is black.”
You never believed in affliction that ceased to be lethal. 
Anything else, you'd say, is curable.
You witnessed your grandmother suffer slowly;
You watched your mother move on quickly.
“It’s not that hard,” You would say.

Unexpectedly, one day I called.
Finally this time, you answered,
“Hello."
“I took a bullet.” 
Pause.
“I’m on my way.”
You could not have arrived any quicker.

Why does it always take a cut deeper, bloodier than sorrow for you to realize you could be the stitch?