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.

He's wearing my favorite shirt. 
And he speaks in tones of peppered loss and rageless loss. 
The claws click against the veranda's shade. 

His pockmarks glow in the reflected dew. 
So quietly announcing the sun's stretches and it's yawn. 

They arrive, my fast continues. 

Beneath the grounded carpet,
The ***** brings me towards the river. 
The color green surrounds me, my reflection quite to speak. 
I stop to look above and see the black clip of flight. 

I look to the paper and begin to finish. 
The ink runs out as I enroll in the water's treatment.