“It’s my fault,” he says, and you tell him ‘no’, but he doesn’t believe you.
“I hurt you,” he says, and you say ‘now we’re even’, but he doesn’t smile.
“I couldn’t control it, I couldn’t stop it,” he says, and you tell him ‘I know’ but he never hears your words. You hold forgiveness out like a blanket, and he only stumbles further into the storm.
“It’s okay now,” you tell him, and he answers ‘no’, and hates himself more.
“I don’t blame you,” you say, and he tells you ‘you should’ but blames himself enough already.
“Stay with me,” you ask, and he says ‘you don’t mean that’, even though you do, more than anything, you do. You take his hand and he jerks it away, and only remembers the blood on his fingers and not the way he heals.
“The things I did…” he begins, and you interrupt with ‘I need you’.
“I can’t…” he says, and you say ‘I’ll be here’.
“You can’t save me,” he tells you and you say ‘I’ll help you save yourself’, and he stares at you in that same familiar way and you’re just now realizing what it means when he does because the expression in his eyes is the mirror of your own.
“I’ve got you,” you tell him, and as the months pass he learns to take forgiveness, and grant it to himself. Saves himself like he once saved you, and you stand back and watch him rise. “I’ve got you,” you tell him, and he learns to smile again.
“I’ll be okay,” he whispers once, and you say ‘I know’, and he kisses you for the first time, and it feels like a million years come to head at once, culminating in a moment and suspended in time.
“It feels like home,” he says at last, and you take his hand, and hold it tight, and anchor him to the ground.