sometimes while he slept,
she would run her fingers down the in—
—side of his forearm and trace the veins there.
she would kill for the milky white canvas, such a
sharp, contrast to the blue hue of his life.
the way his chest would expand and deflate
calmed the anxiety and tangles in her head.
she would fall asleep to the gentle breaths,
and the beauty of his childhood, that ran in his body.
but she couldnt stop the notion of wishing,
her veins held that same kind of power.
he said she was gripping his shirt and wrist,
so tight that it nearly cut off his circulation.
it kept her sleeping soundly for nights on end.