Gentle cold air

Frosted grass

Numbness in my fingers

From the strength of your grasp

Unwillingly lead

Through shadows of trees

The buttstock of the gun in your pocket

Brushing up against me

Not a look of despair

Surrendering to the pull

I’m incredibly still

Staying detained in your hold

You don’t meet my eyes when you’re scanning my face

If you’d arch my back I would let myself collapse

Not growing a backbone

Nor caring at all

I lay limp

If you won’t catch me,

I’ll let myself fall