Slowly I approach…
Try to ignore
The grating of your breath
In the frail daylight,
Try to not see the bruises…
The color of wild fear
Interwoven in an injured soul
Together with futile hope.
I taste the sour air
Escaping from your terrified mouth
Cover your glance with understanding,
The wounds with a gentle cloth.
They were strong fingers
Proof lies in dark marks…
In the delicate curve of your neck,
Where once skin was heavenly soft.
The vicinity of your painfully broken grin
Cuts splinters in my being
Feeds forgotten hate and orders
To embrace your shivering body.
How my hands are
So different than his...
What my hands are…
Other than shelter in harbor?