The Hands That Hold

Each shadow stretches, sharp as bone.  

The weight folds me, my breath spent.  

But through the fracture comes a hum,  

a warm pulse threading through silence.  

His steps fall soft beside my own,  

his breath brushes the bruised night.  

No word, no rush—his presence fills,  

like water sinking into cracked earth.  

And when I rise, my ribs still ache,  

but I see another, bent, breaking.  

I offer palms that once were hollow  

and find his strength flows through me still.  

We are needles stitching tears closed,  

quiet menders in a frail, worn quilt.  

In giving the gift, I am remade—  

the hands I hold are his, are mine.