The Space It Sketches


Throw the knife. I’ll catch it.

And if I don’t, I’ll yank it from my skin and hurl it right back at your head. Your heart. Your smile, cut and wicked and wide.

Your face carved in the handle, my name into the blade: a weapon with two masters.

But the space it sketches as it flies is ours, again.

I’ll throw the knife. You’ll catch it.

And if you don’t, you’ll yank it from your flesh and chuck it right back at my head. My heart. My smile, the one I made for you.

A blade that hasn’t rusted, a handle still intact: that is who we are, it seems.

A weapon of the in-between.

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