I am always by his side,
the man's, whose name I bear.
I am the first thing he touches
when he wakes up,
and the last before he falls asleep.
I can always hear his heartbeat
drumming away beneath his skin.
so hot and fiery from adrenaline,
so tan and warm from the sun.
He clutches me tightly as the bullets fall around us
and prays to God.
But I know he is praying to me.
He kisses me tightly for good luck,
as he has always done before a charge.
Blood splatters against me
and he carefully wipes it away the moment he finds cover.
His fingertips are cool against my face,
his blue eyes probing as he searches for the last droplet of foreign life
marring the etches of my cool form.
I see his comrades fall around him.
But he is untouched.
Perhaps God has listened after all.
Or perhaps it was my doing.
His guardian angel, keeping him from harm.
But perhaps I am exaggerating.
Or perhaps not.
Medals will try to take my place,
gold and silver and shimmery on the outside of his uniform.
But he will always carry me instead.