They know nothing
of what sneaks beneath our skin,
what floats through our veins,
when our hands are intertwined
They don't know what fallout tastes like,
what falling into someone's arms
after you feel ready to collapse,
and know that arms won't heal the pain,
but that these hands at least will hold you,
when nothing else sees that you are small enough
right now to fit into even the smallest hands,
so you collapse,
and she catches you,
as if she's always done this,
wordless, she holds you,
as the world carries on,
as reporters clamor for great news,
as friends leave text messages,
as people mark in their calendars
where they were at this moment,
while two people don't need it marked,
don't want it marked,
but know that today will remain on their minds,
even as the years pass by,
that they'll remember arms,
one set holding the other one up,
the other set clinging so tightly,
that it feels as if one is two and enduring the first real bad nightmare
as the one parent that was hopefully never involved with this crap,
held him, while the world seemed to spin, on and on,
and right now, there's a desperation to his grip,
as if all of his nightmares have come true.