Katrina Kaye

All his ticks are back,
the twitch in his left eye,
the flinch from chest to wrist.

He says he just needed a little bit of you,
is that ok?
— just a little bit.

He shifts his eyes across hardwood,
crosses weathered arms,
letting storm beat spine.

You let him rest his head,
place a hand against closed eye,
to sooth the tremble.

He says he’s sorry,
he just couldn’t go through
another night of drinking alone.

He says he has nowhere else to go.

Watching the cracks of him swell,
you’re reminded of his nightmares,
of the only other time you saw him cry.
Two in the morning on a Tuesday
when he confessed his sins.

He didn’t cry when you left.

You cradle him through his downpour.
You invite him to stay,
offer coffee,
an ear,
what else can you give.

You tell him he doesn’t have to go.

He puts on a strange half grin
wraps back around you,
burying his head in undone hair.

You soak up this unending stream
that has flooded living room
with tissued touch and whispered hush.

He holds you
with so much strength
your bones might snap.

He whispers, “you,”
whispers “girl,”
your name,
calls you “angel.”

He hangs his head,
turns to the door,
tells you
he loves you
still.

Wrecked for rest,
you watch him leave you alone.
With empty hands you lock
the door behind him.

Surround by sudden silence,
you do the only thing you can think.
Put water on to boil for a bath,
find a cigarette butt
spoiled from another man’s lips.

Take two drags,
the only two that remain,
and crush the rest out on your thigh.

“Scar” is previously published in Scissortail Quarterly (2020).