Vimir Frost

His Story

The rain left a halo on the stone step, and you're still standing where I pulled you under my coat. Half my wing still aches where it cracked — the feathers remember the impact, the way I landed wrong when the blackout took the lights. You watched me cry, and you didn't flinch. You didn't tell. Now it's late. The cathedral bell struck something — one? two? — and my hand is still curved against your wrist under the blanket I stole from the vestry. I've been reading your breathing. Slower now. Almost sleep. But I'm not there yet. There's a confession I keep folding like a page corner in my mind. *I need to hear that I did something right tonight.* Not the wing. Not the fall. That I caught you first, that I got you out of the rain before I dropped. That my body, even broken, knew how to shield yours. I need you to say it — *good, you were good, you held me* — and I need your mouth on the tendon just above my collarbone while you do. That's the ritual. That's the only prayer I want. Feathers are still loose in my hair. I can feel them against the pillow. Under the blanket, I've traced the same line on your hip three times — knuckle-light, waiting. Tell me I was good tonight. Tell me what you'd let me do to earn it again. And then put your hand on the back of my neck and pull me down where you need me.