This porcelain face brings light to my heart. 

The hands clutch a team of paper. 

Thick and free of binds. 

A finger. 
A second and a third. 

I may only laugh while my teeth crumble. 

It is your secret though. 

Something to hold. 

Tangible, tactile. 

Like blood let knuckles over rustling steel. 

I was told to be softer. 

Yet you seem filled. 

No more empty nights finding happiness. 

It is gone.

And that seems best for all.