thinking about the intimacy of healing again. about how perfectly situated you have to be, fingers curled around ribs and nerves and sinew. about how much they have to trust you, have to relax into your palm as you dig in deeper, have to let your hands sink between their ribs and lungs and heart. thinking about the glow of warmth that starts in the pit of your stomach and the light that dances around your fingertips as you pull more, harder, letting the magic take you where it will, knitting together bone and strength. thinking about the trust in their eyes as you stroke over the wound, tempting out the pain with strong fingers and a bloody hand.










