Steady Palms

There are scars in the meat of my chest
drawing eyes and high collars
fixed points of red and silver
covering nothing in fetching price.

If I could steal you from the sun
and fill the spaces I had once left
in the mourning rains held here
driving out all hope of thought

perhaps the fine burning stars in my palms
would then all but extinguish
with the fall of evening lights,
perishing in the view of thine eyes.

Cold marks out trails along my skin
roads to walk with fingers, unknown
Holding court along the current of sighs
to thunder in collapsing veins.

And you stand on the fault line
waiting for choice never coming
A beacon of my steady hands holding
hale breath in lungs too sick to care.

You are there, always.