your eyes are grey; grey like overcast sunday mornings and damp pavement stones. I cannot fix you.
your spine is curved. it is as if your body is twisting in on itself and I often ask you why. your vertebrae have been sliding out of place for months now and I have been pressing them back in while you sleep, hoping one morning you will wake up and stretch the ache out of your bones.
your ribs are protruding. they are attempting to abandon your heart and you have not stopped them—ask them to stay. your ribcage reminds me of uneven piano keys and I am careful to press them without breaking you. everything is silent and you hardly spare me a glance.
your voice is rough. I have tried to convince myself that it is not because you are uninterested, but simply because you’re tired. once, you told me that my eyes are like supernovas and that I could drown you if I wanted. neither of us had a clue what you were talking about but I smiled and smiled for days. it used to take a good joke to make me laugh.
your fingers are burnt. I imagine one day they will be as grey and dull as the ashes that you carelessly flick across our tiny table. this is not okay, I tell you when I am feeling brave. you hold my hand like it is a sufficient response. I would give you my fingerprints if I could.
your eyes are still grey. I do not leave my house on sunday mornings and I cannot fix you. maintenance is all you will allow.
