He fell asleep against my chest

He fell asleep against my chest

after the party burned him clean.

His hand, still damp from running,

curled around my collar.

And then the weight—

the actual dead thing of him,

all his resistance gone,

all his holding-up done.

I couldn't move.

Not because I'd wake him,

but because something about holding something

that has completely let go

makes you the only reason it stays.

My arm ached but I held on,

held the shape of his small body,

held everything still,

and I understood then:

this is what it means to be strong,

not in the way the world wants,

but in the only way that matters—

keeping something upright

when it has given up

on keeping itself.

His hand stayed damp against my neck.

I didn't shift or break

the perfect weight of him asleep,

and I thought:

this moment,

this exact pressing,

this is what I'll remember

when I'm old,

this is what I'll hold.