Taylor Worsham


And he collapsed there, so corrupted as a
metal object was just thrust into
his chest. His lungs disgorge chunks of
red plasma as he gasps for air. His body convulses on
the frigid February ground, trembling with agony.

Broiling crimson laminates my hands as I try to cover
the gaping, pulsating wound. He’s heaving, just
struggling to stay alive. Pleading screams echo down dark, empty
alleyways, the cold winter air numbing my throat, but it’s not
loud enough.

My love gushes from the inside out, choking, breathing his own
red iron. He’s dispiritedly drowning in it while my fresh, warm
tears fall onto his paling cheeks. My body becomes his, and I
feel a lightning, pulsing pain in my chest. I feel my life,

His frail heart beats once more and his muscles completely
soften, his fern eyes stare indefinitely and know now that
he is swept into the wind. Intertwining our
cold fingers together, I gently plant pink roses on
the apples of his cheeks with my lips–

His blood dries in the snow–
I finger the wool fabric covering
his ash skin– My stomach is at my knees–
And my fingertips tremble
in this brutal wake–

We lie down together on that street, for hours and I bury
myself into his chest. I watch the snow fall onto his
lips– His body warmth slowly fades with each passing
moment– I gently coax butterfly kisses into his ear, and in return–
I receive silence.