mrs_mia_wallace
Bluelighter
We step back and forth, left to right, front to back.
We hold hands, our fingers molding like paper Mache
into each other. We are holding outstretched fans.
A man should never fuse with a woman that way,
should never offer such promises of a palm, a finger,
a knuckle. We should never not feel alone in that way.
This is what I think to myself as I hold your hand,
feel your warmth that shoots up my elbow, giving life
to the dead skin that resides there.
The coldness is what I expect. I do not fear snow,
rain or hail now; what I fear is the lifelessness,
like the back of a broken rag doll, of dismal, cloudy days.
We hold hands, our fingers molding like paper Mache
into each other. We are holding outstretched fans.
A man should never fuse with a woman that way,
should never offer such promises of a palm, a finger,
a knuckle. We should never not feel alone in that way.
This is what I think to myself as I hold your hand,
feel your warmth that shoots up my elbow, giving life
to the dead skin that resides there.
The coldness is what I expect. I do not fear snow,
rain or hail now; what I fear is the lifelessness,
like the back of a broken rag doll, of dismal, cloudy days.
