The Prisonerâ€™s WifeJohn Murillo
To run fingernails across his shoulder blades I have to lay way back, let him hear my voice first, Make some kind of sound, make sure heâ€™s awake. Itâ€™s been this way since heâ€™s been back in the world. I have to lay way back, let him hear my voice. First Time I reached for him in bed, in the dark, I learned. Itâ€™s been this way since heâ€™s been back. In the world Of makeshift shanks, cell doors clanking after the fact, Times they reached for him in bed, in the dark, he learned To feel fingers before they graze even the skinâ€™s tiniest hairs. Splintered wood and spoons sharpened for next time. The fact That heâ€™s here is a miracle. Iâ€™ve waited six years To glaze his fingers. Our skin, shiny hairs, Make some kind of sound. But I make sure heâ€™s awake. That heâ€™s here is a miracle. And Iâ€™ve waited six long years. Watch me, tonight, claw wings into his back.
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