Bud

Your tiny nails like black crescents,
laid so perfectly in my palm.
I held them there to feel the press
of dagger points against my flesh.
A skinny wastrel,
I played across your sides
with my cold metal drum.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

Skin covered your ribs.
Your hips are stilts
that hold your frame together
with depraved tendons that shake.

Keep breathing.
I can hear the rhythm of the lake.
Flushed birds that try to hide from your eyes;
you did a job, you were a tool
to the one who left you alone with cornhusk shells.

Your veins are good.
I can find your pulse.
25.7 kilos is not enough, you move with the wind.
You eat my words and they're all I give.
I'm not the one to take you home tonight,
to provide you with a place to rest.