his gray hair never made me nervous
and maybe that means i’m sick
but i just want
to reach under his skin
stick my fingers into the muscles in his arms
gliding between tendons and tissue
just to know he’s really there

i’d run my hands against his scalp
silver strands of hair shining against the red of my skin
how i could gather it all in my fist;
and it’s the only delicate thing about him

his palms would feel cracked
against my forearms
dead skin snagging on my pilling sweater
snap as the calluses peel away

but i know he would be gentle
with cut up fingers in my mouth
blood trickling onto my teeth
iron scratching at my throat,
his hands, white-knuckled around my ribcage

and when i dig my nails into his muscles
pulling away to see the open wound,
he could slide his fingers between
each vertebra, tightening around the roots of my spine
just to know i’m really there.

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