You will dig me up from the earth with only your trembling soft fingers. You will touch me and I will feel pieces of myself fall apart and suddenly I will feel barely there. You will pick me up and you will cook me. I will hope that I taste awful and I will hope that you choke on my eyes and my ears and my arms riddled with white lines and I will hope you still love me. You will cradle my roasted hands, my shoulders. You will brush my fused-together eyelashes with only your trembling soft fingers and your gentleness will beg me to forgive you but I will not be able to because I will be dead. You will walk into the river and you won’t come out and I will not follow. You will not flail or hesitate. Your trembling soft fingers will be swallowed by water. But that is all far, far away. For now, you and I are soft and warm. For now, your soft fingers are mine to stop from trembling.
