The fact was
she was there.
In pajamas and bare feet.
The truth was
he trusted her strength.
He stole a last gift
from the edge of her sleep.
He knew she knew
he could not be alone.
He knew that she could see
beyond death
beyond pain.
Could extract the love
that outlasts the wound.
Could treasure the magic
that fends off death.
He is at peace.
A rose window installed in her heart.
The truth is the final image will fade.
She will survive
growing ever more solid.
She is not shadow.
But deathless flame
whimsy and earth.
Not afraid of death or life.
She will smile again.
Blood on Your Face, etching