What She's Holding

You keep touching it,

your fingers on the chain,

the metal tag catching light

like it's holding back

the words you can't explain.

Your partner's name is engraved there.

Rank. Blood type. Everything that matters,

reduced to metal,

reduced to something

that fits in your palm,

reduced to something

you can touch to prove they're real,

to prove they still are.

You twist it.

You let it fall.

You catch it again.

It's a ritual now,

a way of holding on

to someone who's already

holding on to danger.

I don't know what to say

when people talk about people

who are about to be

in peril.

I've never known the words

that don't sound hollow,

that don't sound like

I'm lying

about how much I understand.

So I watch you touch the tag.

I watch your fingers worry it

like it's a thing that needs

keeping track of,

like if you hold it tight enough

it will keep them safe,

like the metal knows something

the rest of us don't.

In two weeks they're gone.

You'll have the tag,

and you'll have this apartment,

and you'll have the habit

of touching nothing but air.

I want to tell you

it won't help,

that metal doesn't protect,

that tags are just things,

that people leave

and you just have to

sit with that.

But you're still holding it,

still touching it,

still believing

that if you don't let go,

they won't either,

that your grip

is the thing keeping them tethered,

that love is a chain

strong enough to hold.

So I don't say anything.

I just watch you hold onto

proof that someone you love

is about to become

a thing you're waiting for,

a thing you're touching

to remember,

a thing you're holding

because holding is

all you get.