#pathofice

hands that heal,   hands that bruise.   his are both.  gentle now in the way they comb through ebony locks to lull him into slumber,   gentle in the way they can never be ‘neath your father’s gaze.  there is solace here in his presence,  in his touch,  &  you ache to devour in the way all starved children do.  with your head against his lap  &  eyne drawn shut,  you think he is the closest thing akin to home.    

a yawn bubbles from the depths of your frayed lungs as you stir awake.   out against the horizon dawn has begun its approach whilst evenfall retreats;   another day closer to the black sun,  another day closer to your betrayal.   hands that heal,  hands that bruise.   soon it will be your own that inflict sorrow    /   leave scar tissue.   

you reach out blindly,  intertwining your fingertips with his to bring them level to your lips.   you press a kiss there.  a tentative one,  a gentle one.  with it you pour  &  pour everything you cannot   (   or perhaps,  will not  )  say into this silent touch.   a kiss against his knuckles means i love you,   against the pad of his thumb means do you love me,  too?  &  finally,  into the centre of his palm,  a prayer.  forgive me for being selfish with you just a little while longer.  everything unspoken  &  still shared so desperately.