Obliterated yet held as holy still.
Stripped of dignity before my clothes.
I approach palms open a body the only weapon to hold.
You fold your hands into mine and as I enfold my body into yours.
A sacred cross of legs and arms until cut off at the head.
I am speaking. You hear me not.
But a voice of an angel I once had, with words to match.
A gurgle or a squeal is all you hear
The echos where blood replaces air.