wring your mismatched hands together they don't belong to you but they're still yours
you watch old reels, the war replaying on a silver screen
relearning a past you still don't remember (your hair used to be short, but you like it better long)
your smile is crooked when you look at him
you don't know if it's fondness or hatred (or something in the middle,the point between rage and bone-breaking love)
he'll never understand how easy it is to make men into machines
but the blueprints for your breathing patterns are hidden away in ones and zeroes in the back of your mind
your tongue and teeth are stained with your old body, ten thousand lifetimes ago you still feel your arm sometimes
ghost aches haunting your every step
when you close your eyes you see an ashtray, blood filling your eyesockets like saltwater
you've forgotten about that night (1942, the war playing in the background as you looked at him, soft around the edges) stars falling from his palms into your chest
you're an ampersand, your fingers interlocked with his
when you ask him what it was like
(you aren't sure what you mean, but he is) he says, soft around the edges,okay
and it's enough
war isn't pretty, it's a tragedy and so are you but it's enough for now
press your fingers into the sway of his back
cough russian winter into his lungs
and try to forget about it

when he says your name you swear it's like nothing you've ever heard before
you taste his on your lips before you realise that you know it
and you feel the metallic taste of iron and blood mixing together
pooling underneath your ribcage
as the others call you a soldier
(but since when has killing for nothing meant the same thing
as fighting for something)
clarity is not in your vocabulary
neither is love
or hope
but you feel them threading through your veins like they were always there
you've forgotten how it feels to remember
your life is a series of ones and zeros but he
he is more than you will ever know
you're not sure why he loves you
{ you are ice and metal and a **** streak
over two dozen assassinations in the past fifty years }
but he swears,
words pressed into the small of your back,
that he does
and you believe him
you're not sure when it was the last time you felt something other than
the electricity or the thawing ice
(his hand in yours brings tears to your eyes
you don't really know why)
you sometimes wonder how he does it
how he loves you
how he can stand to see you every morning
one night, you ask him
and he tells you, quiet, that it helps make up for all the mornings
he woke up without you
(you're pretty sure you're dreaming, but when your hand finds his
it feels real)
you still feel the heartbeats of the targets
you still see them when you go to sleep
the tick marks have become a part of you and they are
inked into your skin like they belong there
they pulled out your lungs while you were still breathing
electric hands scooping you hollow
but he would carve out his own to give them to you
if he had the chance
and you aren't really sure if that scares you or not
when you wake up, screams bleeding from your teeth,
sweat dripping down your back
he whispers memories into your fingertips
and somehow
everything seems like it could be okay