and don't pretend these are heartfelt words

we are children dressed as surgeons but disturbed by the sight of our scars. and now we carry scalpels to trace the scarring resting somewhere on the line between my house, your heart and into your home. where you lay sleeping like a ceiling fan in winter, gently turning as the wind reaches its fingers through the window just to hold you, like I held you. pressed like a rose between my fingers or like stones I keep in pockets meant to weigh me underwater.