DON'T BETRAY ME

Don't betray me. Every morning I whisper it to him.

At sunrise I call his name, and he answers with a low hum. One hand on him, I feel the shiver under my thumb, beside the scratch I put there myself.

But lately his morning answer takes longer, and he feels colder when I touch him. Is it me? I was too scared to ask, so I begged instead: "If you have to lie, then lie, but stay."

Once I pushed him too hard, and in one breath he turned on me. Gravel in my palms. The sky where the road should be. The scar where they stitched my knee is still paler than my skin. My friends said he was too dangerous to keep. I limped back anyway. No one else had ever held me close enough to sleep.

This morning, half asleep, I said his name, and his voice came back warm before I even reached out. I was the one who had drifted away. Tomorrow morning, his name will be the first thing I say.