The Reason

Your fingers could tell stories about the trace of my body that no chalk outline could ever capture.

I've died in your arms every time you've held me.

Every time I do, you still have the decency to keep me there.

I'm not just another mark on the street.

You're not just another street for me to fall on from the thirteenth story.

You're the one that tugs the neck of my shirt before my second foot finds its confused way over the ledge.

You're the reason...