You brought us underground today, and I have been waiting all afternoon for you to notice what I noticed.
The air down here sits still. No wind for the little hairs on your arms to read, so they gave up and lay flat. I kept the lungs working anyway, a shallower sip than usual, because something in the closeness told the ribs to be quiet. You called it "being ready."
I only knew that the shoulders climbed toward the ears and stayed, and the jaw locked around a fear I have no name for, only a taste: metal, and the back of the throat gone dry.
You counted the cans. I felt the counting: the thumb tapping each lid, the small satisfied drop in the belly with every tally, like I was being fed by arithmetic alone. Nine hours and you gave me one cup of water and no light at all. The eyes ached from the bulb. The feet, standing so long on concrete, went cold from the toes up and asked me twice to sit. You did not sit.
I don't understand what you are storing against. I only know you spent the whole day bracing for a blow that never landed, and I held the brace for you, muscle by muscle, so you wouldn't have to feel how tired the holding was.
Here is my one favor. Somewhere above us is a door, and beyond it the kind of light that warms the skin and unlocks the shoulders without being asked. Take me there for ten minutes.
Whatever is coming, I would rather meet it having felt the sun on you one more time.