On that late December evening, I skirt
my hands across your bumpy wrists,
begging
for your pulse.
You take my hand,
press it to your veins,
and I feel the thrumming,
loud and strong, against my thumb.
I remember it still,
the promise of a never ending tunnel.
The darkness engulfs me,
but I don’t want to see the light.
We walk through the black,
hand in hand,
scratching our fingernails against the pavement walls.
Our palms are joined
so that I can feel the drum of your heart,
and you can feel mine,
and I don’t think I’ll ever let my fingers slip away.