3 months too soon

I have the hands of a Doctor
Come here, hold my hand.
Let me whisper in your ear
A plethera of delicate secrets,
Trails of words, strings of light
Told and retold a thousand times over,
But always kept in the dark.

Press your hand against this paper thin glass
A man made skin, to protect you.
You, a small pearl
Tucked within the belly of an oyster.
You, in your own atmosphere
Abismal rain lashing the window
Unable to smother this heat,
Of our hands that are pressed together
... Almost.

Nobody else knows better
The inner workings of your clock.
Ticker at the centre,
Cogs embellished in innocence
Unsteadily turning inside a fragile frame

I have the hands of a Mother,
Come here and let me stroke your head
Paper thin, an incandescent skull.
Unheard rampant breathes
Rasp in and out and your chest falls
Time is moving around us,
A 18th Century oil painting
Embroiled in your eyes.

I rest in this moment,
Knelt on a bleach stained floor
in front of an aquarium with you,
the bizarre exotic fish
Suffocating on the inside.
Unable to bear the thought
That this may be the last time,
My synthetic, gloved hand
Falls upon your warm skin.

Your fall was too far,
Your wings too feeble,
My premature angel.