Edges Raw

Sticky strands stick to my fingers,

a slow drip from a tired forehead,

soft hair torn from sweat and sickness.

I lean close,

catching the wet heat,

and pull it back.

You don’t ask for this help,

the fever hides your voice,

but I can’t look away.

The faint weight of your breath

presses against the dark room.

Your eyes close,

and my hands tremble,

knowing this is the first time

I held something

I can’t fix.