alone now.
sea air is a knife,
but a clean blade brings purity to skin

icons are dead.
nostalgia is a knife,
burnt and stuck in heart of existence, before

dream is wrecked.
this city is a knife,
sweet and sharp caresses down trembling sides of lovers

together once.
love was a knife,
carved perfect patterns into the history books we read to others

still alive.
I could be a knife,
on the right hand, aiding divisions, set neatly, for need or want or standby