Ways

There is dirt under your finger nails from grasping at edges

of ravines too numerous to count in bottomless caverns that

echo with the drops of tears fallen down ivory cheeks freckled with

sorrow.

Lay your hand in mine and I will break my focus around every

knuckle and wrap my consciousness around palms bloodied and bruised.

I will not wince when nails call forth the crimson whispers of

past crimes. I will hold tighter.

I will not let go, but I can be let go of.