will i die at the hands of a saint? my body breaks with each wave that crashes on my shore. or is it just my ego? probably both and definitely neither. it’s the small death, the one that leads me into corridors where doors wait to be opened. the accidents on purpose, the subtle glances and seismic shifts of every choice i don’t make. the way you looked at me when i said i’m ok. the way she looked at me when i said nothing. hands like hearts that open and close and grasp for something to hold onto and something to let go of. i am awakened by the hands of a saint and the heart of a lover, and therefore i die a little. every time i say her name.