he holds (but not me)

he holds

paper with blurred ink then his hands in each other scarred with the entrails of poetry.

i watch

with the freezer-burn phantom-pain of his fingerprints (not) on my back.

he holds

firm pillows with a full-body grip, confident it can grow hands firm enough to requite.

he holds me

when the stars blister me

enough to cast their saccharine mirage.