draw blood

I wish I could recreate you with pen strokes,
turn paper and ink
into blood and bone,
punctuation and diction
to muscle and nerve.
Death never seems fair
but this,
this sticks —
If I could write you to life,
spine become spine,
binding to skin,
margin and gutter
to sense and sinew,
cover to cover
your book would already be filled.

I would hold you in my hands,
feel your weight, your smell,
and then maybe
I could feel
that there is hope–
we are not all


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