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i arrived after the blood
i arrived after the blood
i didn’t rush— not like the blade did.
i waited for the stitching
for the silence
for the whisper of survival
to make room in the air.
when he lay still,
i swirled on the hospital window
where no one looked out.
they were busy
with breath and tubes
and choices.
i came not as storm
but soft-spoken ache—
a tap on rooftops,
a reminder.
he forgave.
and so i drifted on the steam
rising from his tea,
on the crease between his brows.
they speak my name
like myth— africa,
thunder, the red smell of home.
but i am here,
pattering suburb streets,
slipping past jacaranda blooms,
waiting to be caught
by someone who knows
what nearly dying feels like
from the inside.
.
