Chris Ropes - A Night of Razors

I.
On a night of razors
I held her, a body like mine,
and I thought about how dangerous it is
to live in too soft skin,
to fall into another's arms,
to be this flesh touching my flesh
on a night of razors,
in a world that cuts.
Her eyes were closed
and I was grateful for that at least
and I learned the ways of her resting;
No, I couldn't protect her,
not even from myself,
but no pleasure is ever safe
on a night of razors,
in a world like this.
When she turned
I held my breath
and felt her warmth
and remembered we were both
alive....
II.
The price of cigarettes,
the cost of suicide,
the memories that hunger,
the scars on her arms,
the nights where wounds are easy to come by,
the surprise of living,
the sinking into sex or solitude,
the first drink and the last,
the touch....
III.
A bastard conscience
and a kiss,
the celebration of
a night of razors.
Pretty girls, half-hidden by darkness
feeding a starving moon
and she was still beside me.
Just one night
and, after that,
what remains of a lifetime;
a time to consider
the reality of the situation,
a time to forget the constant threat
and the perfect timing
of individual moments.
But, until then,
for us
a night of razors
and a world that slips away....
IV.
I held her
and she breathed
and that was enough.
Our wounds were pale
under fingertips.
I smoked a cigarette
and succumbed to her hair,
brushing my face.
The first shaft of dawn
penetrated
night's tender belly.
Her eyes very nearly opened
and all I could bear to do
was watch.
Our wounds....
I smoked a cigarette,
watched her breasts rise and fall,
and touched my lips to her cheek.

In a world like this
I whispered to her,
"It's morning.
Please stay...."

		More from Chris
	A Night of Razors I. On a night of razors I held her, a body like mine, and I thought about how dangerous it is to live in too soft skin, to fall into another's arms, to be this flesh touching my flesh on a night of razors, in a world that cuts. Her eyes were closed and I was grateful for that at least and I learned the ways of her resting; No, I couldn't protect her, not even from myself, but no pleasure is ever safe on a night of razors, in a world like this. When she turned I held my breath and felt her warmth and remembered we were both alive.... II. The price of cigarettes, the cost of suicide, the memories that hunger, the scars on her arms, the nights where wounds are easy to come by, the surprise of living, the sinking into sex or solitude, the first drink and the last, the touch.... III. A bastard conscience and a kiss, the celebration of a night of razors. Pretty girls, half-hidden by darkness feeding a starving moon and she was still beside me. Just one night and, after that, what remains of a lifetime; a time to consider the reality of the situation, a time to forget the constant threat and the perfect timing of individual moments. But, until then, for us a night of razors and a world that slips away.... IV. I held her and she breathed and that was enough. Our wounds were pale under fingertips. I smoked a cigarette and succumbed to her hair, brushing my face. The first shaft of dawn penetrated night's tender belly. Her eyes very nearly opened and all I could bear to do was watch. Our wounds.... I smoked a cigarette, watched her breasts rise and fall, and touched my lips to her cheek. In a world like this I whispered to her, "It's morning. Please stay...."