Oh shush now it can't already be eleven thirty. You just laid down fetal your shivering body makes me weak in my shivering knees. The cat scratched in through the window with the breezes; the cat scratched a fever right into me. I asked whoever was watching us if one of those nine lives could make you breathe. I asked whoever was watching us if there was one last miracle set aside for me.
Our shack cracked wide open like a coffin every time you allowed yourself to let out a scream. The walls moved softly all around us and to calm you I steeped some whiskey with your tea. The landlords who lived and loved in this valley must have delivered you here to me. With fingers weak from the trembling I cooled a facecloth and held it your brow as you fell back asleep.
It took the sun to show we're never as lucky as we would ever have hoped to be. I prayed to God as the blinds were drawn all around me, may the dark let my voice carry up and through these old rafters with the ghosts we never managed to keep under wraps or under our blankets; their flapping wings and their high pitched shrieks.
We hoped that with winter's falling your temperature would drop through the degrees that caused all the snow down here to melt from off the branches of these naked trees. Could we break this fever? Would we get our dream? Would that God ever come down and intervene? Would he stay your execution? Would he leave you here alone with me?
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