Tracing

I have felt the trace of knife on skin … so close to cutting … so far from harm …

Run that blade across my heart … so near that the pulse flies quicker … set to bleed out in spectacular silence … as dangers often do …

His hand holds mine in the shadow … dusty corners on dead end streets … in the passion of stolen days …

So don’t speak to me of easier edges … a hand that strikes or a rope that holds me tighter … these are mere echoes of a ghostly dream …

He storms rather inside … as easy as you please … the chalk on my chalkboard that sings sweet freedom …

The only edge that matters … the one kind of courage that breathes … the hand to my throat is his chain on my soul … a knife that he bears far too well …

In perfect clarity … there is focus as air grows short … where escape is most certain not to be certain … see he knows … sees his prey in its capture …

Creating with me these darker demons … we have walked that road together … I cannot regret nor flee such grace … as this edge … where truth is seen …

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