a siren smacks the air
from supernal speakers.
my collared shirt scrapes my skin,
sweat prickles under the latex

masking my hands.
I perch in the ambulance as other
adept shirts daydream
of civilized mutilation.

the night hushes the
house, its grizzled shutters
speckled with warped
moonlight, pale and silent.

I trudge into the abyss,
trailing behind trained
footprints, and then
I see you.

I see your lank
hair, your smeared
mascara, your scruffy boot
clacking against the floor.

the other cloaked hands
scurry around you: squealing
about vitals and medicines
and prior conditions

while you clench the
phone weaved between
your porcelain fingertips,
and you tell me

you want to
kill yourself, and should
probably go to
the hospital.

I peel off the gloves
smothering my hands so
you can tangle yours
into mine.

I tell you I can
take you. and in that
moment, of placid chaos,
of your silvery eyes

darting to the hanging light,
of your valiant
certainty to approach
a finite fate,

I almost love you.