You brush a hand along a spine, and the next,
and the next, a finger, then the next.

They shiver when they touch your skin,
murmur of the past, what could have been.

You inhale, sputter like a fragile flame,
brush a hand along a spine. There
was no time, you tell yourself.

They closed themselves upon you,
remaining shadows, close.

You open your eyes, a mouth, a fist;
you let the darkened air come in.
A finger, a spine, the next.

It was too hard to keep them open,
too hard to let them close.

You let yourself curl in, a hand
brush against your spine, a finger
holding you open, for a moment.