you laid yourself out like book and i took notice of your pages, ripped and torn from other readers who read your story on nights like this. i specifically recal holding your face between my palms and rubbing circles into your cheeks. you found this funny and i found you breathtaking. the eyepatch you wore is in my hand and i refuse to let it go because it's all i have left of you, patrick, the man with the soft skin and soft hands and soft smile. i have taken you in the worst way, with your body open to me like a canvas i could paint on with the rosy red in your cheeks. "your hands are rough," you tell me, and then you say "i didn't mean to offend you, i just think they're beautiful" nobody ever said my hands were beautiful and i remember feeling unsure of what i was doing for the first time in my life.
i took your head and cradled it against my chest. i felt your body tense as you were unsure of my movements, and this is only natural as i was a stranger and you were broken, like a sick lamb who is stalked by wolves. the street made marks on you like the marks i acquired battling my father when i was a teenager. the street made you real and i took it all away in an instant and with the snap of my fingers. in the worst way, i held your body and scratched red lines against your stomach and ribcage, bone after bone outlined in red. there is no more light in your eyes. even if you're gone now you're still here.
black hair, blue eyes, arms that felt like holding me but never did. they hold me now and it feels right.