THERE IS A FRAILTY TO HIM THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CUT OF COLLARBONES OR THE BLINDFOLD'S KNOT it's the way he hesitates before laughter as if it crack his ribs open and all the rot will spill out it's in how his hands tremble sometimes like an old man's, cold as chapel stones,, clutching at nothing. clutching air. clutching you. it's how he goes still when you touch his wrist, like he's waiting for the price it's the way his lips move when the campfire dies, a silent prayer, whose verses were carved into something deeper than your soul it's the rasp that isn't his, brittle with something that can only be called SADNESS, in those moments when he's had too much WINE and not enough LIES DO YOU DREAM OF HIM? THE MAN YOU NEVER MET? WHOSE VEINS WERE BLUER THAN A COERTHAN RIVER? WITH EYES MADE OF ROTTEN MILK AND BREATH RATTLING LIKE A BEGGAR'S CUP? YOU REMEMBER, DON'T YOU? THE WAY HE CLAWED YOUR ARMOR SOBBING UNTIL ALL THAT REMAINED WAS TERROR AND YOU! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU COMPARED THE NOTCHES OF SLUMPED SPINES? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU THOUGHT OF KISSING THE LIES OFF HIS TONGUE? " GOT A SECRET, KNIGHT? " HE WILL NEVER ASK YOU WILL NEVER TELL THE VOICE ANSWERS: YES. " miss me, knight? " HE SLURS, HALF ASLEEP, FINGERS TANGLD IN UR STRAW HAIR YOU SAY NOTHING. THE VOICE LICKS ITS TEETH: ALWAYS. AN ODE, THEN TO THE PRIEST WHO DIED TWICE AND THE RAT, NEVER AT ALL! STUPID. BEAUTIFUL. YOURS, YOURS , YOURS