The Hands of the Lion-maker

I've been tired since that night you sang me that lullaby and rocked me to sleep. So, so tired.
I've been sick since that day the cold wind whipped through my hair and iced my ears. So, so sick.

And I lay down, I sit up, I dance on my puppet strings through life essentially the same way I did before you existed in my world. It's a game for me not to think of you though.
I have no future though, like I have no present. And we were not meant to have an opening night for this play we have written so many times. But we rehearse together like I rehearse alone when I'm staring, wishing for the words that came so easily in our exchanges.

I don't know how to tell you because I don't know how to say that I can't save you because I'm too weak and I've been flailing my arms in an open sea, trying not to drown for years. Just treading water, going nowhere, hoping to be swallowed by Jonah's whale. And I wish the water was warm.

And in my dreams you keep me warm and I am warm when I am dreaming of you.
But I don't dream in the colors I used to. I dream in the colors of your skin, of your eyes, of you.
For all this, I hate you.
But I probably hate myself more.
And I love you.
But I probably love myself more.

We sit, hand in hand. And I wait for you to roar because I expect you to; you never do.
It frightens me like you are a jack-in-the-box waiting to surprise me. And I silently whimper in my head, and you will never hear.

You are my lion,
I am your lamb.