Tending the Wound

My memory of you is a knife

with no sheath,
heavy as November in my pocket.

I reach for it anyway.
I offer my fingers like it’s a loose dog
with too much stillness in it.

And, of course, it bites.

But if my blood is what you need
to stay crimson
when all other memories fade to ash,

then open me up,
a sudden sting at 2 AM,

without waiting for my blessing.