When the sobs wrack my body He tells me
and I do, this time, the ugliness of melodrama dictating my response.
I can’t breathe, and I pull myself
from His arms.
It’s so cold on the other side of Him.
My mind will not settle, my thoughts disordered, a 3D puzzle with no solution regardless of the number of times I arrange then rearrange the pieces.
Even His proximity doesn’t calm me as it normally does.
Everything He attempts is designed to sooth, to try, from the outside, to mend the inner, and when the salted tracks on my cheeks run dry He asks me,
voice soft, low, familiar,
(seeking direction as He tries to make sense of me?)
“What do you want to do?”
but His own battle occupies the space where I would usually stand,
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