"And I've got you to make me feel stronger" he whispered, while stroking his pale olive fingers lovingly over my knee.
Did he know? I need him, to make me feel stronger, because, who else would?
"And I've got you to make me feel better" he whispered, brushing his lips over my ear lobe as he did so.
But, I long to say, I have you to make me feel better. After the moon wanes and my morale is low, you are there to make it better.
He hugs me, forming pictures in my head with his whispered words of love. I wonder if he knows how much I need him, how much he means to me. I'm sure he is as ignorant as always.
The warmth of his body pressed against min is reassuring. He slowly strokes my cheeks, making me feel alive. He helps me forget what has happened, but the scaring scratches remind me.
They're cold now, though no wind has touched them.
A tear breaks free, slowly sliding down my face. He turns me to him. He's crying too.
"Don't" he says, knowing.
They're silent now, no laughter can escape them.
It's all my fault. How can he still stand to touch me, to hold me like he did before? How can he bare to see me, when I've taken them away?
They're blind now, though no age has touched them.
I stare, unseeing almost, at the cuts across my palms. That's where they fought. How can he still trust me?
He stares into my eyes. Another tear breaks free, followed by a third, and a fourth.
"How can you look at me?" I breathe. The words are hoarse, why is my throat so choked?
"How can I not?" he asks, small smiles playing with the edge of his lips- though they'll never smile properly again.
I turn away; I don't want him to see the eyes that they had to see.
They're one now, though he never learnt to count.
With these hands, I took them- those same hands that had hugged them, the same hands that had held them.
I turn back to face him. Staring, I see my reflection in his eyes- as lifeless and pale as them.
In his eyes, I see them staring back at me.
Forever, in my eyes, he'll see them, slashed and bloodied, because of these hands.