Looking glass

We might both be made of glass:
my eyes won’t leave his
even as his faltering fingers
trace chains along my shoulders
in halting little links.
"A friendly warning," he sighs.

But there is no clink when he hesitates,
no chill when he holds my hand,
gauging panic by my pulse
or the quickness of my breath.
He can tell I won’t blink,
but still he’ll tell me he loves me.

He treats his love like a threat,
a knife at my neck;
he always thinks he’s the villain
since I don’t love him back.
And in the end, the only breath
that fogs his cheek is a weak

"I’m so, so sorry I don’t."