A Common Cut

Her soft eyes cut me

Standing there all perceptions of imperfections and predisposed notions of what this world is to me are scorched away in the warm inferno glow of her corona.

Thin brown hair rippling like low tide

Flawless in her sundress as she spins in the daylight and laughs away my somber darkness and dares the stars to burn brighter.

Gentle fingers moving lightly through the air

Fearing that my damaged touch will make them rough and that my wounds will become her scars and the pure light that she radiates will be eclipsed and her white snow will be stained red.

But she has cuts of her own

She smiles as she bleeds and soothes my scrapes and shows me that if life is the razor then love is the tourniquet and that the collective bloodletting of humanity pours from its common cut and this

That we two, we too, we all bleed the same.