warm hands over a faintly beating heart

the flame in their heart raged with a roar

then diminished to a flicker, no more than a whisper.

no more, they thought, as they held themselves

close and tight, longing for some place safe and quiet,

a place last known in their mother’s womb.

no more, they thought, i have no more to give,

while the ground drank the dirt and the sweat

that poured from their skin.

the flame had diminished, a faintly glowing ember,

and darkness threatened to overwhelm them.

but—

warm hands encased their faintly beating heart:

hands both smooth and rough, scarred, calloused,

and gentle with love and shared sadness;

and warm breath stoked the slowly dying flame:

breath as soothing and life-giving as a mother’s kiss.

no more, the hands and the breath said.

you have no more to give; and we will give and shield

until you are ready once more.

and in that space, held by and grieving alongside many, stoked by the breath of others’ hope,

the flame in their heart began to grow.