( They grasp after each other, the fading passing of silks and robes slipped past doorways and steps taken and failed, day to day, or achieved, hour to hour. He turns his hand, invites the scrabbling, responds to Lethe's inquiry with the rawness of himself. )

The only thing wanting is a choice. To stay, not to solve.

( There are too many, many things which require the individual to tend to, to resolve, to hope. )

Sleep with me.

( Let it digest and churn and live and provoke as it will, later, as what cannot be changed acknowledges the desire, the wish otherwise. He turns hand, fingers finding fingers, palm pressed to palm, wrist held. One pulse to match another, timed off their own breaths, that Lethe does not match, though listening. Learning. )

That is an ache you can choose to soothe.

( While they live, and breathe, and winter stalks closer, little by little. )